


A Lady of Cathay

by NoNessa (sunmyano)



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action/Adventure, China, Gen, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, Intrigue, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2016-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-11 10:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 86,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4432172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunmyano/pseuds/NoNessa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A strange young woman returned from China is the only witness to a Musketeer's death. She is the bearer of dark secrets and a scandal waiting to happen. D'Artagnan and the three Musketeers are pulled into the thick of it. Will they join her in the fight for her life? My own Musketeers "episode", with a quirky OC keeping the boys on their toes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Green Cloak

**Author's Note:**

> Series: 1 (I still really miss the cardinal and his plots and this one kind of needs him to work. ;))
> 
> Rating: PG-13 / M. There is some strong language, fighting, and dying, involved.
> 
> Characters: Everyone is in it and accounted for. Of our four heroes, Porthos gets to say a little more. The cardinal is also very important and, of course, there is Désirée, my OC, mixing things up. ;)
> 
> Disclaimers: I do not own any of the series' characters. The moral rights to them belong to the BBC and Monsieur Dumas. There is no copyright infringement intended. But I do own my original character. If you are interested in using her in any way, please ask me first.  
> Furthermore, all characters appearing in this work, including those based on actual historical persons, are entirely ficttional. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
> 
> Warnings: This is my first Musketeers fan fiction and the first story I have written in over 7 years. In the meanwhile I have worked on role-playing and original writing. So I am not all rusty. But please, please be gentle with me. ;) Thank you.
> 
> Secondly, I know OCs are not everyone's cup of tea. But here is hoping Mademoiselle will not get on your nerves too much…. But now, on to the story: Enjoy. :)
> 
> PPS: I first posted it on Fanfiction.net and am now cross-posting the chapters here so more of you wonderful people can read the story. ;)

1\. A Green Cloak

Others needed silks to feel pretty. She only needed her sword. The long, slender Chinese blade rested in its golden scabbard against her back, well hidden from sight. It was not a lady's plaything. But neither were the oversized woolen cloak, or the wide-brimmed hat. She had taken them off a dead horseman near Le Havre. It had been a lucky coincidence. The clothes she had brought back from Cathay were simply not warm enough for the rotten French weather.

And the dead man's things had given her safety. For a lone rider in the woods, it was best not to look like a woman. The same held true for the streets of Paris. Wearily, almost silent her booted feet slid across the grimy cobblestones, nearing her destination.

She had given away the horse to move more freely, to run away when there was danger. More than any mysterious Eastern bazaar, this cold, dank city frightened her. In every step, dread mingled with sheer repulsion. But it did not matter now; she was almost there.

Or not.

"You." The voice came from close behind. It was a male voice, crisp and authoritarian.

She stayed where she was, not moving a single muscle. Perhaps it was not addressing her.

"Where did you get that cloak?" the voice demanded with a sharp undertone.

So much for that. Inwardly, she swore. The speaker had not held her up to discuss fashion. This meant trouble. In a flash, her body broke into a run.

As she moved, her eyes darted into every direction, catching sight of objects and people careening by.

Suddenly, a wheelbarrow appeared in front of her. It blocked her path, too close to evade. Out of options, she jumped. Too short. When her feet touched down inside the cart, the surface underneath rolled away. Apples. Her feet scrambled forward. Somehow she kicked free. Apples flew into all directions as she landed in the street.

Startled, she looked around. She did not see anyone in pursuit. But panic drove her on, through the passing crowd. She felt resistance as she pushed past people, snaking her way towards the next side alley.

There she took a sharp turn, her flank scraping past a coarse brick wall. She dove into the shadows of an alleyway. There she stopped. Her breath came in quivering flutters. The journey to France had been taxing enough. And now this... She touched her newly bruised side, gritting her teeth. It hurt. But at least her pursuer was out of sight.

She closed her eyes, listening to the faraway noise of the street. There was nothing unusual, no commotion. Then, suddenly there was a nearly soundless swish, right behind her.

Him again. Her senses screamed in alarm. Out of reflex she went down into a defensive stance. She never got there. At once, something hard pressed against the small of her back, snagging at her overcoat. It felt like the tip of a dagger.

"I shall ask again, boy: How did you come by this cloak?" The stranger was not letting off. His tone was even more irate now.

He was not going to stab her, yet. If she drew her sword now, that would change. She had to surrender, unless...

Suddenly, she had an idea. A distraction. It would buy her two seconds. With a quick snip of her fingers she flicked her hat into the air. In the same motion she drew the blade over her shoulder.

Her arm wheeled backwards just as the attacker spun to draw his own saber. With a swish, her blade bit into his wrist.

"Monsieur, kindly abstain from scratching my back", she said calmly.

There was a pause as the man adjusted his dropping jaw. "Not a boy after all. And too comely for it, too... My apologies, Mademoiselle." He sheathed his dagger, offering her the ghost of a bow.

She studied him. He was still rather young, probably in his thirties and not unhandsome. He was tall and well built. His brown hair fell just short of his shoulders in a slightly curled mess. The fine features of his face were partly obscured by a beard he could have done without. Then she noticed it: He wore a dark green cloak, very similar to hers. She sucked in a quiet breath.

"Why do you assail me over a cloak?" she inquired trying to hide the mix of dread and curiosity rising within. "Do you need a spare one?"

He smirked at the irony in her voice. "No. But this particular one belonged to a friend. And he is dead now."

She suppressed a groan. It was just her luck to run into a friend of this particular dead man. "I give you my word, I did not kill him. But without him, I would be dead now", somehow she kept her voice steady.

"Still", her assailant replied equably, "I shall ask you to accompany me. We would not want anyone to charge you with his murder."

It was unclear whether he believed her or not. At least he mistrusted her. Wordlessly, he beckoned for the sword still in her hand.

"I'm sorry, but it's mine", in one practiced swing she sheathed it back over her shoulder. "You have my word. I will not draw it on you again."

"The word of a lady..." he smiled thinly, offering her his arm.

"Perhaps", she narrowed her eyes, reluctant to take it. "And you are...?"

He raised a brow at her question as though it had surprised him. "Aramis of the King's Musketeers, at your service."

Splendid. She rolled her eyes. A tangle with a royal soldier was the last thing she had wanted. She should be ashamed. Should... Instead she just swept her feathered hat off the alley floor. It was too soiled to wear now.

"Pleasure", she muttered, taking the arm that was not merely a polite offer. "And don't fret, I won't run again."

"Not so sure about that. You are a fast one", the musketeer frowned. He got into motion, with a firm grip on her elbow.

Forced to tag along, she sighed in exasperation. "Where are we going?"

"The garrison." He only so much as half turned as he answered. "My comrades there will want to know how our friend died."

He did not seem to believe her tale after all. "Not by my hand", she snapped vehemently. It was the truth.

"So you said", Aramis replied calmly, ushering her back into the main street.

She did not reply. Something else had caught her attention. Very suddenly, her body had started tingling with a sense of alarm. Someone was watching them. She gazed around, yet she saw nothing unusual, only people going about their business. Perhaps her mind was getting tired. Her journey to had been long. And for now it seemed far from over.

Armand Cardinal Richelieu was plagued by another bout of migraines. Yet he would never allow them to stall his work. However, the news he had just received, had considerably worsened his headaches.

"Is that so?" he demanded flatly of Milady de Winter.

His personal assassin and spy leaned against a side table most languidly. "It is. I have seen her arrive in Paris with my own eyes. Do you want me to deal with her?"

"No", he rose from his desk, resisting the urge to rub his aching neck. "This is an official church matter. I will have to receive her in person first."

His creature did not approve. Very briefly her eyes flicked up towards the ceiling. "This seems quite a hassle for a missionary's bastard."

The cardinal sighed with exasperation. The case of this young woman was special, to say the least. "Not if you knew her father. Any action beyond the official will entail a scandal, for now."

"If that is what you wish..." Milady seemed disappointed. Lately, he had not allowed her to dispose of anyone. She was getting restless.

"It is", he replied with an air of finality. "Besides, her father had enough enemies. Perhaps, one of them will cause a welcome accident soon enough."

"I see", she turned away, awaiting his dismissal. "Is there anything else?"

Richelieu reached for a quill, writing out an order for his Red Guard. "I would like to find out the reasons of her visit", he said, more to the wall than to her. Once he had finished writing, he straightened, still not looking around. "You may go."

"Very well, your eminence", from the corner of his eye, he saw her sketch a rather ironic bow.

When milady had left, the cardinal could no longer abstain from massaging his temples. Their conversation had worsened the throbbing pain in his skull. His mood had darkened along with it.

Jean-Marie de Sauveterre had always been a hard, unpleasant man. When he had learned of the missionary's death in China, he had been relieved. The sudden appearance of his illegitimate daughter had destroyed every vestige of this feeling. If she was here to settle her father's scores, crisis was inevitable. And it was his responsibility to prevent it. However, he did not look forward to doing so.

"Have you seen Aramis?" Athos was becoming impatient.

Porthos knew it was getting serious with him the moment he noticed his friend's fist clench and unclench most irritably. "He'll be here soon. He probably ended up in some little adventure again."

"Right", Athos pulled a face, "It doesn't change the fact that we have a mission on our hands."

Porthos sighed. His mate was in an especially unpleasant mood today. He blamed it on yesterday night's wine. "He will come. Grumbling at me won't make it any quicker."

"I could go look for him", D'Artagnan offered helpfully. He had just come back from the stables, leading his saddled horse into the yard. Porthos watched him tie it up next to theirs. They had been tethered there for quite some time already. Aramis really was late today.

Athos shrugged off the young man's offer. "It won't make much of a difference now..." At once, he paused. There were steps in the lane leading up to the garrison gate.

Porthos looked up, squinting into the morning sun. He made out Aramis's hat in the distance. There was someone in his tow: A cloaked figure, shorter than him, slender and with billowing dark hair.

A woman. He laughed out loud. Aramis had always been the ladies' man. But bringing them here was a novelty, even for him.

"Is that...?" D'Artagnan frowned, looking just as baffled.

Athos was much less impressed. "It's not what we need now. He'd better have a very good reason."

"Or a decent story", Porthos added, still heaving a little from laughing so hard. "If this is another of his amorous conquests, I'm dying to hear all about it."

As they drew nearer, he knew this was probably not about love. The young woman in his wake looked neither willing, nor happy to be with him.

Once Aramis stopped in the garrison's yard, she pulled free her arm, glaring wordlessly. She was very beautiful with keen dark eyes and straight black-brown hair flowing a long way over her slender shoulders. Her poise was very erect, conveying a sharp sense of alertness. Paired with her angry gaze, this made her even more attractive.

Porthos felt her eyes dwelling on him, but only for an instant. Then they travelled on to Athos who did not look any happier. It seemed to be a feeling they shared. He acknowledged her presence with a nod. Then he turned on Aramis.

"So, what is this about?" he demanded curtly.

"Well..." Aramis bit back a cheeky grin, "we might not be riding to Le Havre so soon."

Athos rolled his eyes, "Because it will be dusk by the time we arrive?"

"No, because I have found a witness", he nodded at the lady next to him.

There was a pause as Athos took in the new information. His attention shifted towards her. "You saw how Captain Blaise died?"

Obviously irritated, she sighed. "Yes. He died because of me."

At her words, Porthos felt himself tense. His comrades reacted much the same. Their sudden weariness irritated the woman even more.

"And I will say it for a third time: I did not kill him", she growled flatly.

"Yet you took his belongings", Aramis contested, very unhelpfully.

"Not without his express permission", she sighed again. "He died, saving my life."

This was different. Yet it did not seem to sway Athos much. "We would welcome some proof of that, Mademoiselle..."

"Désirée Lévesque de Sauveterre", she curtsied with a whiff of irony.

Porthos watched the smug expression on Aramis's face derail for a moment. He snorted. As so often when he met a beautiful woman, his friend had probably forgotten to ask her name, again.

"And as your friend was so upset about the cloak, he might as well get it back", she added pointedly. Porthos watched her long fingers dance over the buttons, undoing them. The heavy riding cloak slipped from her shoulders. In a flash she tossed it into the air. Her move was so quick, Aramis had to stoop to catch the flying mass of cloth.

And she had better kept it on. She wore barely anything underneath, but a strange costume of a wrapped blue silk blouse and a matched skirt, barely touching her ankles.

"Oh god, you really needed it", Aramis muttered. But by the way he looked up and down her shapely body, he did not seem very sorry she had shed it.

Athos was disturbed by something completely different. "You're armed", he commented dryly. He disapproved.

The slender sword in its golden scabbard strapped crosswise against her back looked more like an expensive ornament. But Athos was right, it was also a weapon. With his mood today, the chances of her keeping it were slim.

"Does that trouble you, Monsieur?" she quipped cockily.

"Not as long as you surrender it now", Athos replied calmly, yet with a very warning undertone.

Porthos made eye contact with D'Artagnan. They drew closer, in case she refused.

Her body tensed and her eyes narrowed. "Am I your prisoner?" she demanded, moving closer to Athos until her face was mere inches from his.

"No, but I do not trust you", he said.

She would not relent. Now was the time to act, to catch her unawares. D'Artagnan dashed forward. He made a grab for her blade. Seconds before his fingers touched the hilt, she crouched down. Her leg flew backwards in a roundhouse kick. It snatched away D'Artagnan's legs. Stunned, he fell backwards. Once he touched the cobbles, Porthos and Aramis drew their blades. Before they were on her, she leapt forward. Her booted foot came down hard against D'Artagnan's chest. She looked ready to crush his windpipe.

"Easy", the tip of Porthos's sword scratched at her back. He was prepared to grab her any second.

Aramis was in front of her, blocking her way with his blade. Athos stood next to him, ready to draw. Their guest got the message.

Slowly she spread her hands. Her back straightened as she stepped away from D'Artagnan. "Just so you know", she said quietly, "I will always be armed, with or without my sword."

With a sigh, she shrugged the scabbard off her shoulders. Elegantly, it glided into her palm.

Athos stretched out his hand for it. But she turned away from him. "Not you. I don't trust you", she snorted scornfully. Her eyes zeroed in on Porthos. They had a startling amber hue he had not noticed before. "You may keep it."

He sheathed his own weapon and took the ornate, golden scabbard from her. He had not seen such a strange longsword before. It was thin and needle-like, with silk tassels dangling from the hilt. In his large hands it looked almost frail.

"Put one scratch on it and you die", she told him in all seriousness.

Porthos roared with laughter. What a threat for someone two heads shorter than him. "I like you, Mademoiselle", he stated, totally ignoring the glare he got for it.

Aramis was amused, too. "Ouch. I say you better don some clothes or you'll die of cold soon, milady."

"I am clothed", she replied, almost sulkily.

"In very expensive underwear", Porthos could not bite back the remark.

She pulled a displeased face at him. "It's an _Aoqun_. In Cathay no one would regard it as underwear."

"Cathay?" Aramis smirked.

"China", she said icily. "I have traveled too far for you to mock me."

Aramis flinched at the cold in her tone. "I apologize. And I might have an idea where to find some French garments for you." He looked at D'Artagnan who was still rubbing his back from the fall.

Porthos felt sorry for the young man. First he was knocked down by a woman and now he was badgered to ask yet another favor of his dear landlady. But the notion was good. At a cloth merchant's house, they were bound to find some proper garb for Mademoiselle de Sauveterre. By now she was shivering, much as she tried to suppress it.

D'Artagnan saw it, too. "We can go ask Madame Bonacieux, unless Mademoiselle decides to hit me again", he conceded.

"She won't", the young lady nodded at him to lead the way. She appeared calmer now. "And I apologize."

"Apology accepted", D'Artagnan waited for Aramis to bring up the rear. His comrade picked up Blaise's cloak which he had dropped during Mademoiselle's little outburst. "Mademoiselle, you should be glad Aramis found you and not a Red Guard. They would have been less forgiving."

Aramis drew a mute finger across his throat to reinforce the young one's words.

She looked perplexed as though these things had not meaning to her at all. "What's a Red Guard?"

On hearing this, Porthos chuckled yet again. She really came from far, far away. He watched the three of them proceed through the garrison gate, towards the Bonacieux residence where D'Artagnan had his lodgings.

As they had disappeared, his gaze found Athos. He had not spoken since the fight. Even now he still looked sullen. If Mademoiselle de Sauveterre went on at this pace, the two of them would be on the best way to enmity.

Porthos sidled closer to his friend. "What do you make of her?"

"Nothing", Athos said. This meant he was yet undecided whether to simply mistrust, or right out loathe her. "You seem stricken with her", he observed gloomily.

Porthos smirked. "You know how I like them: cantankerous and pretty."

"Speak for yourself…" suddenly he held on and listened. A moment later there were hoof beats reverberating off the ground and two mounted soldiers in red coats rode into the yard.

Speak of the devil. Porthos's fingers curled around his pistol. What the heck did the Red Guard want here? He had no doubt it had something to do with their new lady acquaintance…

Athos stepped up to the two Red Guards. "What do you want?" he asked curtly.

"We are in search of Mademoiselle de Sauveterre", one of them responded, "we have orders to take her to the cardinal."

"I would like to see them", Athos demanded with a glare. He definitely did not like their intrusion, either.

The speaker dismounted and produced a sealed parchment. As Athos opened it and read, Porthos peered over his shoulder. Once he had gleaned the signature at the bottom, he had seen enough.

"The cardinal indeed", he muttered, scowling at the two newcomers. "And why would you look for her here?"

The guard who still sat on his horse shrugged disdainfully. "Someone gave us a hint."

Meanwhile Athos had finished reading the whole warrant. He had nothing to say against its soundness, but the look on his face betrayed deep skepticism. "It appears you have just missed her. But she will return shortly. You may wait… outside."

At that, Porthos grinned at the two hesitant guards. "You heard him. We don't like Red Guard horses defecating in our yard."

Grumbling the first guard mounted up again. Once they had walked their horses to the other side of the gate, Porthos turned to frown at his comrade. "This is getting better and better", he muttered, an uneasy feeling spreading in the pit of his stomach.

What could Cardinal Richelieu possibly want from this young woman? This smacked of trouble for her and, thanks to Aramis, for them as well. Aramis sure had to drop the habit of digging up tribulations wherever he went.

_To be continued…._


	2. Cardinal Affairs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick heads up for this chapter: In the last passage, there is a very brief exchange of Bible quotes, in Latin. You will find the translations at the very end. We will see who wins this little skirmish… ;) Enjoy.

2\. Cardinal Affairs

The moment Aramis and D'Artagnan appeared in the hall, Constance Bonacieux sighed. Whenever they showed up together, trouble was never far away. And this time, the trouble was female.

With a tingling sense of anticipation she eyed the young thing in their wake. With slow, soundless steps she had followed the two men into the house. She was tall and beautiful with pale skin and large brown eyes. Her gaze darted around the room suspiciously, registering every movement and every shadow. She wore the strangest silk costume she had ever seen. It looked as though this one had escaped from some oriental seraglio. When the woman stopped in front of her, Constance saw that she was shivering. It was no wonder.

"What is it now?" she asked D'Artagnan and his friend with an air of curious annoyance.

Her young lodger did not speak a word. He looked disgruntled and ashamed. So Aramis spoke up instead. "We are sorry to trouble you. But Mademoiselle de Sauveterre here requires a set of clothes. Perhaps you could..."

Constance cut him off with a wave of her hand. Her attention returned to the freezing young woman. "I can see that. She can borrow some of mine."

Refusal would have been tantamount to murder by freezing. She nodded at the woman to follow her upstairs. As they passed D'Artagnan, she gave him a shrewd look. "Is she your new love interest then?"

He opened his mouth to reply, but the young lady was quicker. "I have no amorous interest in puppies", she retorted in a low voice full of ice.

"Puppies?" Aramis smirked. "You sure kicked him around like one, Mademoiselle."

D'Artagnan looked ready to punch his comrade.

Their female companion gave him the most provoking of smiles. "It will teach him not to underestimate his opponent", she stated deadpan.

"I surely won't next time", D'Artagnan growled, his expression growing even darker.

"Fine", the woman awarded him one last, quarrelsome glance. Then she turned her face away and strode upstairs with big steps. Constance wondered what had passed between these two. It was definitely not affectionate.

xx

In the upstairs bedroom, Constance opened the chest that held her wardrobe. Her guest took in the new surroundings. The eerie way in which her eyes examined every crevice of the room was unsettling. What on earth had made her so watchful?

"What happened to your belongings?" she inquired carefully, hoping for some answers.

"They might yet turn up", Mademoiselle de Sauveterre replied quietly, gazing out of the window. "Or simply not…" Her stiff poise and reluctant tone sent a clear message: She had no wish to talk.

At the bottom of the chest, Constance found a white linen shift and a finely embroidered corset made of smooth lavender satin. She had outgrown it long ago, yet the younger woman was slender enough for it. It would fit her very well.

When she held out the clothes to her, their looks met for the first time. There was great scepticism in those strange amber eyes when Mademoiselle swept up the shift and held it to her body. Her uncertainty about the garment grew with every moment she kept it in her hands. When her gaze locked onto the corset, it became loathful.

"Would you like some help putting it on?" Constance asked, trying to stay friendly in the face of so much callousness.

Her question sent a jolt through the younger woman's body. Every fibre of her being seemed to tense at once. "No", she snapped harshly.

When she spun at her, Constance saw the glare. It burned with dangerous wrath, conveying a fiery threat. It frightened her greatly. Mortified, Constance stepped backwards. Her hands were shaking. Instantaneously, she feared for her life.

It was then Mademoiselle de Sauveterre realized what she had done. "I'll be fine, thank you", she added, banishing the razor-sharp edge from her voice. Yet her bristling stance remained defensive and full of warning.

"Take your time", Constance replied with all the calmness she could muster. "I will find you a skirt." With that she turned and left the room. She had no wish to clash with this peculiar young lady.

xx

With a sigh, Désirée undid her blouse and unwrapped the skirt. Regret was gnawing at her. She had not wanted to chase off Madame Bonacieux. Yet protecting herself was paramount, even if it meant making new enemies. By accident, her hand brushed against her bare spine. Like a lightning bolt, hot, sharp pain flashed through her body. She gasped for air. In her memories, the pain felt very real. Yet in truth, it had faded long ago. Only the deep marks of abomination remained and nobody was to see them.

The instant her hands stopped shaking, she slipped the shift over her head. In an attemptto focus her thoughts, Désirée beheld the corset. The scanty purple thing looked neither warm, nor comfortable. But she had no better options. It was either this, or showing weakness by freezing openly. Full of reluctance, she took the stiff garment into her hands.

When Madame Bonacieux returned, a burgundy-coloured skirt swept over her arm, Désirée had just finished tying the laces.

"Now that doesn't look bad", she commented as she spread out the long, pleated mass of fabric on the double bed.

"I'm not used to carrying my breasts under my chin", Désirée retorted, eyeing the heavy skirts. Tentatively, she ran a hand over the dark red woollen cloth. As she picked it up, she felt the thick material's weight in her hands. It held the promise of some warmth. Carefully she pulled the skirt over her wide silk slacks, fastening it atop the small sachet that held the remainder of her scant property.

"Thank you kindly, Madame", she said graciously, once the garment sat in its proper place. Madame Bonacieux had not deserved her scorn. "I am very sorry to have inconvenienced you."

"Don't be", the other woman replied. Her fright was gone. Yet she still acted distant and cautious. "You may keep the clothes if you like."

"That would be useful", with a coy half-smile, Désirée swept up her skirts and made for the stairs.

Downstairs, the stunned gapes of the two Musketeers zeroed in on her. She had expected no less of them.

"Now here is a true lady", Aramis stated with a smirk.

She had no need for his flattery. "You have no idea what I am", she replied with a sharp glare. "A lady is certainly not one of these things."

"Perhaps not. But I know one thing about you, Mademoiselle", he was still grinning to himself. "You are freezing even now."

Inwardly, Désirée swore. Had she shivered? Or was he merely satisfying his incurable longing to appear gallant?

The green cloak was still hanging from his arm. In a single sweep, he shook it out and offered it to her.

"I thought this meant soiling your comrade's memory", she observed instead of showing gratitude.

"I don't believe he would mind if you had it", Aramis replied mildly.

Because he was dead, after coming to her aid. The mere thought made Désirée sick. She was not worth another man's life. "We should head back", she said abruptly. "Lest your other friend decides to mistrust me even more."

"Athos?" Aramis chuckled dryly. "It is not all about you, Mademoiselle. You merely caught him in one of his less pleasant moods."

"And then you made the mistake and challenged him", D'Artagnan added, obviously satisfied to pick on her.

Désirée sneered at his puny attempt. "I had a feeling he needed it. Shall we go then?" She pulled the overcoat tighter about her shoulders, bracing for the cool breeze outdoors. As she strode towards the door, she saw Madame Bonacieux coming downstairs.

She stopped to give D'Artagnan's landlady a nod of gratitude. It was not often that strangers offered her kindness without asking a favour in return. Not even the Musketeers had done so freely.

"Farewell, Madame", she said with the tiniest of smiles. Then she pushed through the door, back into the sodden streets of Paris. Wordlessly, her two chaperones followed.

xx

The men were staring at her. They were two, both mounted on large horses, wearing armour and red cloaks. As Désirée drew closer to the garrison gate, one of them jumped off his mount. His heavy boots thudded against the weather-worn cobblestones.

The two Musketeers were flanking her on either side. They had seen the grim-looking strangers as well. A brief wave of watchful apprehension had swept over them. Now they slowed their pace.

What did they want? Confusion gripped her. The sensation lingered, turning into faceless dread. Tension crawled into her legs. The muscles in her thighs clenched, ready to jump at the threat. Suddenly, there was a hand against her arm. Startled, she slapped it away.

"Whoa", Aramis said quietly, right next to her ear. "Those are only red guards. They won't harm you, as long as you behave yourself."

The tall, burly guard closed in on them. Clearly, he had come for her. But why? When his hand slid over his sword hilt, nothing held her anymore. In a jolt, her body dashed forward, primed to fight.

At once she crashed into something solid. Désirée cursed out loud. Aramis had pushed his shoulder into her way, ere she had made a single step towards the opponent. He was closing in quickly now.

The Musketeer looked at her. There was no reproach in his eyes, only a sage air of warning. "Let me handle this, Mademoiselle." Gently, he jostled her towards D'Artagnan. "You better escort her back into the garrison before someone gets hurt."

Désirée felt the young man's firm grip around her right arm. "Come on", he coaxed her. Shaking him off would have been easy. Yet she allowed him to drag her into the garrison yard. For once, the two Musketeers seemed to know exactly what they were doing.

Once safely inside the garrison, she pushed D'Artagnan away. Her worked-up muscles gave off a strong blast of energy. The force of it nearly gusted him over. Yet this time, he stood his ground. Still, he rewarded her with another scowl.

Désirée looked around. Inside the yard, not much had changed. The two other Musketeers were still here. The guards' presence outside had left them alert and wary.

Athos stood stiffly, passing them watchful glances. Then he saw her. He stopped dead, moving her way with big steps. The look on his face was grim.

"Monsieur", she held his glare. "What is going on here?"

Before he got to reply, Aramis strode into the yard, providing the answer. "These gentlemen seem very eager to take Mademoiselle de Sauveterre to the cardinal."

"Yes", Athos said darkly. Nothing more. The contemptuous distrust in his eyes told her the rest.

Aramis turned to her, raising a brow. "Have you any belated confessions to make?"

"None", Désirée frowned.

"Then what would he want of you?" Athos questioned more impatiently.

It was a good question. Désirée bit her lip, thinking hard. She had known Armand Richelieu when she was a little girl. The memories of him were vague and obscure. Yet she recalled a single, cold feeling: the urge to run and hide from him. Of course, today, she knew what business he had had with her father. It had been about her. But back then, she had been too young to understand why. That was all she could tell the men.

"He had dealings with my father, but never with me", her reply was curt and unemotional. "I have no idea what he wants of me now."

"Well, you better find out", Athos observed, his expression still the picture of suspicion.

She sighed. "I should. But there is something I have to give you first." Her hand slipped into the purse beneath her belt. They pulled forth a pendant. It was a small oval locket, hanging from a solid silver chain. "Captain Blaise gave this to me. He wanted his sister to have it after his death. She knew of the arrangement. The captain was hoping she would vouch for me when it was presented to her."

Désirée put it into Athos's palm. "Please keep it safe until I return."

Until she returned... She gazed upon the pair of restless guards outside. A dreadful shudder rippled coldly down her back. It scared her to be left alone with them. The thought of facing the cardinal on her own felt even worse, like a punch to the pit of her stomach.

"And there is something else", she said quietly. "I am worried for these gentlemen's safety. May I request an escort, just so nobody is injured?"

At that, Athos's jaw clenched most unfavourably. He would refuse.

Yet someone else took to her plea. Porthos, who had said nothing since her return, offered Désirée a mischievous grin. "It would be my pleasure, Mademoiselle."

As he moved forward, Athos's hand came up against his side. "We're not..." he began. But then, something in his comrade's resolute expression persuaded him otherwise.

"We're not about to go anywhere else today, is that what you were saying?" Porthos offered evenly.

"More or less", Athos replied in a low voice. He knew full well it would be pure idiocy to leave her alone now. Yet for a moment, his unbroken dislike of her had won.

"Off we go then", Porthos bobbed his head towards his mount. As of before, it was still saddled and tethered outside the stables. "Let's take the horse for a little walk."

Smiling gratefully, Désirée tagged along after the tall, sturdy Musketeer. At least someone here did not loathe her entirely. This one even seemed somewhat taken with her.

"As long as you don't have to walk", she quipped.

"Nah", another easy grin crossed his face as he led the mare towards her. "You're skinny enough."

Désirée rolled her eyes. This was no compliment. "Fine then." Ignoring the proffered hand, she swooped up her skirts. From the corner of her eye, she saw the look of blank disbelief on D'Artagnan's smooth face. The boy looked as horrified as though she was about to unclothe herself.

"Don't worry, puppy, I'm wearing trousers", with ease she swung her, fully clothed, leg over the saddle, allowing the skirt to billow back over it. The young one's hateful stare was priceless. Yet again, she had successfully embarrassed him.

"Always good for a surprise, aren't you Mademoiselle?" With a quiet chuckle, Porthos climbed into the saddle behind her.

The horse took off at a slow walk. In passing, Désirée's gaze travelled over to the three others. She saw mild amusement on Aramis's face.

"I will take back what I said earlier, Mademoiselle. You are clearly not a lady", he called.

"I have told you so, Monsieur", she responded quietly, more to herself.

Up ahead the red guards were waiting, remounted and ready to take her away. Porthos's unexpected company displeased them greatly. Yet they dared not challenge him. He had brought them what they wanted. It had to suffice. With gloomy stares they spurred on ahead.  
Désirée barely suppressed a shiver over the unknown fate closing in on her. She was glad the Musketeers had not abandoned her in the face of it. Even though she would never admit it, she knew she would be doomed without them.

xx

When Captain Treville returned from his duties at the Louvre, he did not fail to notice the two Red Guards riding past him, with Porthos in their tow.

The captain curbed his own horse to see what was happening. He noticed that his Musketeer had company. A young woman was sharing his mount, her long, black hair flying in the wind. Treville squinted to see who it was, only to find he did not know. Usually, he was never uninformed about the goings-on in his battalion. Yet he saw no need to step in. Someone at the garrison would provide an explanation.

As he rode into the yard, he found Athos, Aramis and D'Artagnan engaged in quiet conversation. They seemed a lot more agitated than when he had left them earlier. Treville dismounted. He wondered why they were not in Le Havre, investigating Captain Blaise's death. The explanation had better be good.

"What did the Red Guards want here?" he questioned as he strode over.

The three men turned. Instantly, he noticed the sour look on D'Artagnan's face. Aramis, on the other hand, was smirking nervously.

"They had orders to take Aramis's new lady friend to the cardinal", D'Artagnan observed dryly.

His comrade glared at the young man briefly. There was a nearly imperceptible spark of guilt in his eyes. "She is nobody's lady friend..." he muttered.

The captain had no patience for games today. "Who is she then?" he demanded crisply.

It was Athos who answered. His expression was even gloomier than D'Artagnan's. This meant trouble. "Her name is Désirée de Sauveterre. Apparently she has witnessed Captain Blaise's death."

No. Treville's fist balled. De Sauveterre... he had not heard this name in a long was his daughter doing in Paris? And why now?

The flicker of recognition had shown on his face. Athos picked it up right away. "Do you know her?"

"I knew her father." Her as well, but she had been very young, three, perhaps four years old.

He got into motion towards his state room. The three Musketeers followed.

"She seemed very startled when she learned the cardinal wanted her", Athos went on. It was clear he had neither sympathy, nor trust for her.

Treville narrowed his eyes. "Yet it is no wonder." Mademoiselle de Sauveterre posed a potential threat to Richelieu. Yet she was probably ignorant of the sizeable avalanche of calamity she carried in her wake.

"What dealings does he have with her then?" Aramis inquired. He sounded worried.

The captain could not help but share the sentiment. "She is a Jesuit priest's bastard, born to a noblewoman. Her father was the cardinal's adversary." He had been a shrewd, unrelenting persecutor of sins committed within the church's highest ranks. Then love had broken his neck.

Up on the gallery, Treville stopped. He felt pity for de Sauveterre's daughter. It was wrong she should pay for her father's faults. Knowing the cardinal, he would not go easy on her. Not to speak of her father's countless enemies craving vengeance. One misstep and she would be finished. Yet there was little he could do to help her.

Then, suddenly he realized that, perhaps there was a way. "Have you questioned her, yet?" the captain asked Athos.

He shook his head, "Not yet."

"In that case, Désirée de Sauveterre will be under your protection until the circumstances of Captain Blaise's death are fully resolved." His decision meant going against the cardinal himself. Yet his sense of justice allowed for nothing less. Besides, it was time to repay some old debts.

"Are you worried she might run away?" Athos asked cynically. The orders displeased him, as did everything else about this young woman.

"No. But she might not live long enough to testify." For now, that was all they had to know. It was enough to cut off any further arguments.

Without another word, Treville stepped into his room. Once the door had slammed shut behind him, he tossed down his hat. A part of him wanted to curse. These days, Paris was already teeming with feuds and bloodshed. The sudden appearance of Mademoiselle de Sauveterre only promised to make matters worse. Much worse…

xx

Old ghosts died hard. And Désirée de Sauveterre carried the ghost of her father with her. Yet she was one thing her father had not been: She was afraid of him.

The cardinal watched the young woman pace his study. She moved with sylphlike grace, her long, dark hair floating around her like a veil as she moved about with short, measured steps. Clearly, she was aiming for an air of impenetrability. Yet her pallor and the dull gleam of insecurity in her eyes spoke an entirely different language. Deep down, she was still the little girl who desired nothing more than to hide from him. Yet these times were gone forever. Now, after two decades out of his reach, she would finally face him.

It took a long moment before she deigned to notice him. "Your eminence wanted to see me?" she curtsied stiffly, reluctantly. The contempt in her voice was hard to miss.

"Obviously", Richelieu made no effort to rise from his desk. "Or did you think your return to France would slip my notice?"

She raised her eyes at him in a mute challenge. "I do not see why it concerns you. You are a man of state now. A Jesuit's bastard is hardly your business anymore", her tone was dangerously sharp, much sharper than was good for her.

"But you are, now more than ever", he allowed, relishing her momentary confusion.

Her eyes narrowed at him. "My father was yours to worry about", she said finally, sounding gravely upset.

"Your father and his abominations", the cardinal gave her a contemptuous glare. In essence, this young woman was nothing else; nothing but a sacrilegious bastard and an unspeakable abomination.

Yet Mademoiselle de Sauveterre seemed to care little and less for all this. "Is that what you think of me then?" she questioned, belligerence written all over her precious face.

"It is what the church thinks of you." His own opinion was a different matter. To him, she was a nuisance not easily dealt with. The circumstances of her birth were merely adding oil to that particular fire.

The young woman gritted her teeth. "The church would love to lock me up in a convent for the rest of forever." She tried to appear nonplussed, yet Richelieu did not fail to notice her struggle for composure.

"That, Mademoiselle, puts it very mildly", he sneered, pausing to study her yet again. With every passing minute in his presence, her unease grew. And he enjoyed seeing her, already porous, façade crumble away, bit by bit. "What is your business in France?" he inquired shrewdly.

"That is none of your concern... eminence", she retorted. Suddenly her gaze honed in on him. There was no more fear in it, only arrogant displeasure. Richelieu wondered what had sparked this unforeseen change of mood.

She had no right to such volatile demeanour in front of him. Sick of her antics, the cardinal stood, striding towards her. "Every step you take on this earth is my concern and you know it", he responded with a glacial air of warning.

As he circled around her, Mademoiselle de Sauveterre trembled visibly. "That may be your stance", she breathed, "Yet I am no baseborn bastard whose life is at your mercy."

Richelieu stopped pacing. He had misjudged her. Désirée de Sauveterre was her father's daughter after all. At once she appeared no less direct, callous and unforgiving as the late Monseigneur had been. And her sire had made sure she knew of her mother's high birth, instilling a misplaced sense of pride in his offspring.

Yet everything else she knew of her alleged mother was a set of carefully crafted lies. The cardinal had made sure of it, since the day she had been born. Should the young woman ever find out, just how noble her lineage was, widespread scandal was inevitable. The thought of that alone made his headaches flare up again, worse than before.

But, unbeknownst, she was right about one thing: She had powerful protectors in France all the same. The Jesuit friars were among them, much as they despised her. However, they had never ceased to cover for de Sauveterre, even after breaking his vows for fornication. And, of course, his daughter's presence in France was no secret to them. Should anything happen to her, they would find a way to make him pay. The priestly brotherhood had always been skilled at wreaking havoc to his well-constructed plans.

"However, no mercy will save you, should I accuse you of plotting treason", Richelieu observed irritably. His patience was wearing thin, like a thread ready to snap, "So, why are you here?"

Her breath came in slow, shallow gasps. At last, he had hit a nerve, terrifying her back into humility.

"I have nowhere else to go", she admitted reluctantly, "both my parents are dead and I am in search of a home."

"A home", the cardinal sneered. "How moving…"

It was hard to believe a single word of this. He had not failed to notice her Musketeer companion. She was up to a lot more. The fact that she seemed involved with the king's soldiers, only a day after her arrival, was tell-tale of it. Yet, questioning her any further made little sense. His spy would enlighten him about Mademoiselle's true motives soon enough.

"Where else do you expect me to go, eminence?" she retorted, bold provocation written all over her face yet again.

"A place devoid of your father's enemies", Richelieu said pointedly, "you can be assured there will be countless attempts on your life."

The young woman stared at him in silent defiance. "Surely you will have nothing to do with them..." she muttered after a long moment of petulant glaring.

"Naturally not." For now, this was the truth. Praying for an unfortunate incident was hardly an active involvement. The cardinal moved back towards his desk. "However, should your actions displease me, or the church, matters will change: One false step and the convent will be the punishment you had hoped for."

"Is that so?" the tremulous shadow of a smile crossed her face. "The church should be more concerned about its own sins."

Richelieu halted in mid-step. Twenty years ago, in the face of exile, her father had said the exact same thing. What knowledge had he passed on to his daughter? With the right things in her hand, she was even more dangerous than he had first thought. The cardinal kept his features stony and aloof, yet on the inside, concern was raging. "You are a living sin, Mademoiselle", he stated flatly.

His words did not perturb the young woman in the slightest. "Qui sine peccato est, primus lapidem mittat", she quoted, contempt lighting up her eyes.

He that is without sin... Richelieu smirked. Her choice of Scripture verses had given her away. Surely, she knew too much. But would she use it against him? Under all this pretence of headstrong bravery, she seemed too cowed to try.

For now, the cardinal felt safe, safe enough to put this wayward daughter into her rightful place: "In filia non avertente se, firma custodiam."

At once, Mademoiselle de Sauveterre paled. It gave her light skin a ghostly hue. She had understood his message: He would watch her every move. Should she so much as twitch into the wrong direction, she would pay dearly.

"I think your eminence has wasted enough of his precious time cautioning me", her cold words were a feeble try to cover up her mortification. "If that is all, I would like to take my leave now."

"Of course", the cardinal waved her away. She had indeed taken enough of his time, trying his patience to the extreme. Yet Richelieu doubted he had seen the last of Désirée de Sauveterre.

As graciously as her tremulous legs allowed, she bowed. Her relief was obvious. Slowly she made for the door, her feet barely making a sound against the tiled floor.

But then, only inches away from the door, she spun back around. "I have one more question", she announced.

Somewhat unsurprised, the cardinal half-closed his eyes. "And you presume I will answer it?"

"You will", her tone was no less self-assured than her father's. "Why did you exile my father when you had every right to pursue his excommunication?"

So he would answer, "Because of you, Mademoiselle." It was all he had to say.

"I do not think I can believe that..." Perplexed she eyed him. After a short moment, she spun around and left, without another word.

His vague reply had not satisfied her. Yet it had been truthful. He had offered Monseigneur de Sauveterre a deal, allowing him to join the Jesuit mission to China. In return, he had forced him never to reveal the true identity of the girl's mother. So far, his scheme had succeeded. And thus, it had to continue.

The cardinal sat down heavily at his desk, rubbing his aching neck. Under no circumstances was the young woman to know that her mother was not as dead as she thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Qui sine peccato est [vestrum], primus [in illam] lapidem mittat. – "He that is without sin [among you], let him first cast a stone [at her]" (John 8:7).
> 
> In filia non avertente se, firma custodiam, […] – "On a daughter that turneth not away herself, set a strict watch: […]" (Ecclesiasticus 26:13).
> 
> Verses taken from the Latin Vulgate Bible (c. 380 AD). English translation of the verses according to the King James Bible.


	3. Fighting Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Treville makes his move to help Désirée and Richelieu learns about one of her darkest secrets...

3\. Fighting Chance

The cardinal was taking his precious time. And Porthos was stuck outside, waiting. To pass the seemingly endless stretch of time, he withdrew the strange sword from his saddle bag. The scabbard's ornate goldwork glittered in the midday sun, as he balanced the weapon in his left hand. The elegant blade was too short to be a rapier, and too slender for a proper longsword. And, no matter what it was, it felt too light in his palm.

Suddenly, Porthos heard quiet footsteps behind him. He stopped admiring the sword. His back straightened, but he did not have to turn to know who had just snuck up on him.

"Playing with my toys?" Mademoiselle de Sauveterre inquired. She sounded tense and exhausted.

Porthos turned to face her. "Only admiring them", he allowed mildly.

As his eyes travelled over her, he noticed just how weary she looked. On the way here, she had barely spoken, sitting the horse as stiffly as a pillar of stone. The dread that had made her so was wearing off now. And it left her shaken.

"You're a bit on the pale side, Mademoiselle", he observed, trying to hide his concern.

A glare flitted across her features. Clearly she did not like to be found out. "And you..."

Eyebrows raised, she studied him. Porthos had a feeling she might regret her next comment. "You douse yourself with cinnamon every morning, don't you?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. This was not what he had expected. A part of him wanted to laugh out loud. Yet the remorseless cynicism in her voice had stung. It earned her an insulted scowl.

Suddenly, the pallor made way for a rosy flush. "Oh god", ashamed of her words, Mademoiselle averted her gaze. "Forgive me", she muttered regretfully. "When I am worked up, I..."

"Cross everyone around you?" Porthos suggested. The distraught look on her face had softened his tone.

She sighed, "Sometimes." Apologetically, her eyes rose towards him again. "Things get a little out of hand."

No doubt, they had done that with Richelieu as well. No wonder she looked so shaken. Provoking him was never a good idea. "More than a little it seems", he observed, smiling again at last. She definitely needed the encouragement. "What did the cardinal want of you then?"

"In short?" Somewhat more at ease, Mademoiselle rolled her eyes. "Why the hell are you in France? Better watch your back, or else..." She faltered. Another shadow crossed her face.

As it lingered, Porthos made a step towards the young woman. This was hard for her. Fully expecting a slap, he touched her hand. It was ice cold. But she did not push him away.

"Did he threaten you?" he questioned. His eyes narrowed at the idea. It felt wrong, wrong enough to stir his anger.

She smiled wryly. "With Armand you never know. He's such a..." Her hand clenched around his as she let off a stream of unintelligible curses.

They were probably Chinese. Curiously, Porthos raised a brow.

"Some things better stay unsaid in French", she murmured, looking around watchfully.

Porthos understood that. Yet there was a lot more, still eluding his understanding. "But why is he so interested in you?" he asked.

"I might as well tell you", she replied quietly, her hand still laced around his. "My father was an ordained priest who whelped me on a highborn lady. This makes me a sacrilegious illegitimate."

A cleric's bastard... At once, things made a little more sense. "What of your mother then?" he blurted out.

Wordlessly, Mademoiselle de Sauveterre studied him. Pain dulled her fiery eyes. It made Porthos regret his question. He had been prying too deeply. But then, she answered it:

"Suicide... from shame", her voice was calm and unemotional. Obviously, she had never really known her. Much like him...

Unexpectedly, she gripped his arm. With insecure steps, she moved closer until their bodies were a hair's breadth from touching. At once, Porthos realized he still held her sword in his left hand. Quickly he chucked it behind his back. With a silent hiss it slipped into the saddle bag.

"Nice try, Mademoiselle", a smirk crept onto his face. But he had misjudged her intentions. None of this was about the weapon. She drew even closer. Her finger touched his lips, silencing him.

"Désirée", she whispered. In one fluid motion she was on her tiptoes. Her cheek brushed against his a she bent over, smelling at the crook of his neck. "What a pity. No cinnamon indeed."

This time, Porthos chuckled. This woman had no shame. And he liked it. Suddenly, she stiffened. Alerted by the sudden change, he strained his ears. Something was going on behind him. Several horses had just come to a halt.

Porthos's fingers tightened around his sword hilt. But then, he felt Désirée relax. There was no threat. Yet he knew who else it might be...

"We can't leave you two alone for two minutes, can we?" Aramis commented from behind him.

With a broad grin, Porthos turned to face his three comrades. "Says the right one", he retorted, unsure why they were here. Clearly, something new had happened in their absence.

Désirée sensed it, too. She eyed them all shrewdly. "Have you missed me that much?"

"Hardly", D'Artagnan quipped. He had not gotten over her previous insults yet; that much was obvious.

Athos appeared no less disgruntled about being here. "For the time being, Mademoiselle, you are under our protection", he announced, struggling to keep the reluctant glower from his tight-set mien. "Captain's orders."

This meant trouble. Suddenly concerned, Porthos frowned. Whenever Treville issued such an order, the reasons were never trivial. He had no idea what it could possibly be this time. Was there something else she had not told them?

"That serious, is it?" Désirée's tone was ironical, yet her expression mirrored his own concern. She paused to notice the spare mount in D'Artagnan's tow. "Matters must be grave if you bring along a horse."

Slowly she approached the black mare. As D'Artagnan moved to untie it, she waved him away, before he had so much as dismounted. "No need to acquaint me with your pretty cousin. I think we shall get along splendidly."

Porthos winced. He wondered what D'Artagnan had ever done to incite her temper. Aramis, however, found the needless insult very amusing.

"Don't they ride camels in China?" he inquired, brows raised curiously.

"The emperor rides one." Désirée shrugged and climbed into the saddle, as effortlessly as before. "Do I look like the empress of China to you?"

"That would be too much of a compliment", D'Artagnan chimed in, a cocky little smirk on his lips.

As he mounted up, Porthos watched the scene closely. How would she react? A sizeable part of him wanted to hold his breath.

But Désirée merely grinned, almost proudly. "You have finally insulted me. Looks as though you are learning..."

"I have been able to talk before you showed up, Mademoiselle", the young man glared at her. He had not expected this reaction; neither had Porthos. She was such a volatile thing.

"I believe we have done enough talking for now", Athos stated. He looked deeply exasperated and very eager to leave. Before anyone got a chance to argue, he turned his horse and spurred it into motion.

Today was definitely not his day. Being stopped from investigating the death of a long-standing comrade, only to protect someone he mistrusted did not sit well with him. But orders were orders...

Porthos brought his horse alongside Désirée's. She seemed rather unhappy about heading back to the garrison once more. When her eyes met his, he saw confusion and worry burning in them. The sentiment had been no different when the cardinal had summoned her.

"Looks like I'm incredibly popular today", she observed with a bittersweet grin. "First Richelieu wants me, and now your captain."

He smirked at her cynicism. "You must be doing something right, then."

Désirée rolled her eyes. "Otherwise I would not be here with four reluctant chaperones."

"Not reluctant at all, Mademoiselle", Aramis reined in on her other side. He was smiling, but Porthos noticed the worry simmering beneath the surface. Definitely, Treville had told them new things in his absence. Whatever they were, they bode ill.

Did Désirée know any of it? Her momentary good spirits seemed more than a little forced. "I was not talking about you two, obviously", she replied with a nod at Athos and D'Artagnan, riding in front of them.

"Obviously." Worried or not, Aramis did not abstain from offering Porthos a very meaningful wink.

Sharp as she was, Désirée did not fail to notice. "Don't worry. I like you both equally well."

"Comforting to know..." Porthos began. Then he looked at her. Suddenly, the easy grin froze on his lips. In a flash, Désirée's whole demeanour had changed. Stock-still she sat the horse, as though she had turned to ice. Her eyes darted around in a panicked flurry of motion. The rest of her features were hard and stone-cold. Something was not right.

"Désirée?" he touched her arm.

After an instant, she woke from her trance, shaken with fright. "Trouble", she breathed.

Suddenly, they heard hoof beats, approaching fast.

Aramis was the first to react. He seized her horse's bridle and called out a warning to Athos. Not a moment too late. Mere seconds later, the attackers were upon them.

xx

The current of sounds around her was broken, ripped apart by the roar of hooves against stone. Scraps of black cloaks and flashes of bare steel darted through her field of vision. Beneath her, the horse balked at the uproar. She could not check it. Fear petrified her. The harder she tried to focus, the tighter became its stony grip. She wanted to scream. No sound came. Only that of someone else's voice. Aramis...

"Move!" The shout rang like an explosion in her mind. It blew away all restraints. Her head snapped around to face him. That moment, his pistol flashed up in his hand. He fired a shot at a passing assailant. The bullet buried itself in the stranger's neck, dropping him dead from the saddle.

Almost calmly, Aramis's attention returned to her. "Get out of here. We've got your back."

She nodded. Stunned she realized he had been holding her horse, steadying it in the middle of fighting. Now he let go.

Fiercely, the animal gave heed to its panic. Désirée struggled for control. Her thighs dug into its flanks, hard. The horse skittered sideways. Then, with a sharp jolt, the menacing gallop slowed to a fast canter.

Désirée's mind focussed on the fight. The clash of blades washed over her like a tide. And there were screams, screams of fallen men... The Musketeers were amidst the turmoil, outnumbered. Masked attackers in black cloaks were everywhere. She counted five still alive. More were underfoot, dead or wounded. The enemy was losing.

Yet, blank horror clawed at Désirée. The attack was meant for her. A battalion of thugs to kill a single woman... Full of fright, she urged the horse forward. Right ahead, the battle cleared. She was almost free.

Suddenly, the hairs on her neck stood up. Someone was approaching. Tensely, Désirée whirled around in the saddle. A rider had broken from the fight. He was coming for her, fast. Too fast. Within a split second, his horse crashed into hers. Amidst the violent clash of bodies, he grabbed her. Forcefully, the attacker's iron fingers dug into her arm. Helplessly, Désirée twisted in his grip. She was trapped, with no way out. He was too strong, and she had no weapons. No weapons but one...

Désirée forced her mind to focus. It was her only chance. Around her, time froze. Her senses sharpened. Underneath her, she felt the warmth of the horse's body. It was dazed, unmoving. The enemy dragged at her with brutal force. Any second now, he would pull her to the ground.

Cold fear hit with a fiery blow, rousing her instincts. Unthinking, she kicked her horse. Screaming, it reared. As it began to rise, Désirée wrenched her feet from the stirrups. Summoning all her strength, she pushed off with her legs. If he wanted to go down, they would. Head-first she soared backwards. For the blink of an eye, she felt completely weightless. Then her body gave in to gravity.

With a sudden jolt, her shoulders dipped down. Reflex kicked up her feet. Before she lost control, her calf lashed out sideways. It hit the stunned brute square across the face. Numbed with shock, he tumbled away from her.

At once, Désirée sensed the ground approach. Too soon... The impact would break her back. Desperate not to kill herself, she threw her body sideways. Just then, her side crashed into the hard ground.

Unprepared, her shoulder struck the cobbles. Hot agony screamed through her arm. Somehow, she rolled onto her stomach, preventing a more serious injury.

It still hurt. For a long moment, she lay motionlessly. Her breath rattled in shallow, laboured gasps. Agonized, she waited for the hot throb in her arm to subside. The ground around her shook as the attacker's horse ran off, following her own. Désirée breathed a sigh of relief. Just now, things could have gone calamitously wrong. She had been incredibly lucky...

Suddenly, there was a shot, almost right behind her. Startled she spun from idleness, only to find Athos cantering towards her. He had just killed her assailant. Relief washed over her. At last, Désirée managed to sit up.

She blinked away the sparks of light dancing in front of her eyes. Her attention narrowed to the ongoing fight. By now, most of the black-cloaked attackers lay strewn on the ground. This very moment, another enemy fell, struck by D'Artagnan's blade. Around the fresh casualties, riderless horses roamed, seemingly oblivious to the dying battle. Yet the struggle was not over. Three men remained standing, held in check by Porthos and Aramis. Clearly, the Musketeers were winning.

Still, a tingling sense of alarm kept Désirée on her guard. She listened. The street was deserted. All the noises were gone. There was nothing more to fear. But why was her heart still racing? Something felt wrong, as though there was a phantom lurking in the shadows.

Momentarily, Athos's horse blacked out the sun. His arm reached down, interrupting her thoughts. Without hesitation, she grabbed it. As he pulled her up, Désirée looked backwards. A bright, white flash caught her eye. Sunlight reflected off a steel barrel. "Look out!" she screamed. One of the fallen had aimed a pistol at them.

Athos reacted immediately. "Hold on", he snapped, spurring the horse into a gallop, the second her fingers closed around his shoulders. A fierce gust of wind ripped at her skirt as he put distance between them and the shooter. It was all he could do. Suddenly, she heard the whipping sound of a lead ball ricocheting off a limestone wall. They had made it, barely escaping a disaster.

xx

What had begun with a sole Musketeer, had now become a whole guard detail. Richelieu did not like it. As so often, the king's soldiers were foiling his hopes, encroaching on his affairs like crows preying on a cadaver. But why this time…?

The cardinal stood. With slow steps, he paced the length of his spacious study. There was only one explanation: their captain. Lost in thought, he found his finger rubbing the bridge of his nose. Quickly, he withdrew it again.

Of course, Treville had been involved with the girl's father. Yet, to this day, the nature of their business had eluded even him, the best-informed man in France. Of course, twenty years ago, his resources had not been as extensive as they were now. After the Jesuit's forced journey to China, he had let the matter slip. Now, this lapse demanded its galling tribute. The Musketeer captain was one step ahead of him. Very blatantly, he was protecting this nuisance of a woman from harm. Richelieu was certain; there was a sound reason behind his actions. If he found out, he could destroy both of them...

Suddenly, the door behind his desk cracked open. With a quiet rustle of skirts, Milady slipped into the room. She had news for him. The cardinal stopped walking at once. Yet he was not bothered to look at her. "What have you found out?" he queried curtly.

There was no immediate reply. His wilful spy was too busy getting comfortable. Richelieu spun around, the throb behind his eyes deepening his glare. Unperturbed, she reclined against his desk. If she had the confidence to act this provocatively, success had most likely emboldened her.

"They have been attacked." With an air of contentment, she finally tossed this morsel of intelligence at him.

It was good news indeed. "Was Mademoiselle de Sauveterre harmed?" he probed, trying hard not to sound hopeful.

"No", Milady plucked a handful of grapes from the bowl beside her. "But it was a hopeless plan, nine men attacking a band of Musketeers in the middle of the main street."

Indeed, it sounded as stupid as it was reckless. He wondered who was desperate and capable enough to dare such a strike. At some point, they might come in useful... He should find out who was behind it. "I trust none of them saw the end of this unfortunate endeavour?"

"Unlikely", Milady shrugged. Elegantly, she slid off the desk. From the folds of her skirts, she pulled forth a small, sealed piece of parchment. "And, I believe, this should interest you more." Tucked between two fingers, she held it out to him.

Shrewdly, the cardinal beheld the document. On the outside, it looked weather-worn and stained. Finally intrigued, he snatched it up, carefully unpicking the seal.

It was a letter, of a much more recent date than the outside had let on. As he scanned the first few lines, a smirk broke on his face. Correspondence from China, detailing Mademoiselle de Sauveterre's departure. She had not taken her leave as voluntary as she had claimed. The missionary who had written the letter, was rather explicit about this detail. Richelieu was surprised such a message existed at all. He had over-estimated the Jesuits' integrity with their exiled brother. As far as the congregation was concerned, de Sauveterre's daughter had fallen from grace.

Richelieu paused, relishing this new information. He considered passing it on to the original recipient. This way, he would rob the young woman of the Jesuits' guardianship, a vital element to her survival. "What of the messenger?" he inquired.

"He ... slipped", Milady answered with an enigmatic smile. As expected, she had killed him to still her bloodthirsty nature. It did not matter though. He could always send a Red Guard, claiming it had indeed been an accident.

With a fleeting nod, he went on reading. The story kept on getting better. The missionary described a crime, most heinous to the Chinese authorities. Only by the brotherhood's intervention had Mademoiselle escaped a death sentence. There was no further description of her deed. Yet its existence was more than enough. With rising spirits, Richelieu refolded the parchment.

Despite all his warnings, the little fiend had kept the truth from him. The letter had given him the means to destroy her for it, several times over if he had to. But now was not the time. He felt there was more to it, a bigger calamity still in the making. Sooner or later, she would incriminate herself. Only this time, she would not escape with her life. Not on his watch...

"Don't let Mademoiselle de Sauveterre out of your sight", he ordered Milady. "Meanwhile I shall see to the letter. It is far too interesting to keep it from the Jesuits."

"Very well." His creature had expected more. Barely did she hide the disappointed look on her face. But his last words had been all the gratitude she would receive. Her job was not done, yet.

"And you will not touch her", he added sharply. The pleasure of finishing Désirée de Sauveterre was to be all his.

xx

Something had happened. Treville knew the moment Athos sped into the garrison yard. He was on his own, escorting Mademoiselle de Sauveterre to safety. From the gallery, the captain watched them dismount. The slowness of the young woman's movements betrayed how shaken she was. Yet, she was quick to push away Athos's arm, once her feet touched the ground.

Moving forward, she raised her head to the gallery. Her amber eyes met the captain's gaze. They were like two fiery gems, radiating an aura of slow-burning petulance. He remembered that look well. Yet now, twenty years later, it lacked any trace of childlike softness. The little girl was no more.

Graciously, Treville nodded, showing her to come upstairs. He knew her irritation was not meant for him. Instead, Athos got the lion's share of it. As they approached the stairs, her face was contorted with displeasure. It had been something he said.

The captain had not heard Athos's words, but her response reached his ears with stark clarity:

"All you ever do is reproach me", she stated harshly.

As so often, Athos stayed perfectly calm in the face of her heated temper. "I did not reproach you, Mademoiselle. I was merely pointing out that you could have died, wagering with your life as you did."

"I am well aware of that", briskly, Mademoiselle de Sauveterre averted her face from him. "And you should know I was controlling the stakes."  
Despite her obvious exhaustion, she dashed up the steps, eager to put some space between them.

Once atop the gallery, her worked-up expression softened a little. "Captain", she awarded Treville a courteous nod.

For a brief instant, a vague flicker of recognition clouded her features. Had he imagined it? She had been so very young on their last meeting. The captain wondered whether she remembered him at all.

Athos joined them. He still seemed composed. Yet Treville did not fail to catch his unvoiced exasperation. "What happened?" he questioned, eyeing both of them closely.

Before she could say anything, Athos cut her short with a single sharp glance. "An attack; eight men rode us down on the main street..."

"Nine." There was a sudden mischievous sparkle in Mademoiselle's eyes. Her mouth twitched as she bit back a cocky grin. "I see counting isn't your strong suit. Thanks for the rescue, though."

It was then the captain noticed the dark streak of dirt coating her sleeve. Before he could ask about it, she pulled it closer to her body, out of his sight. "It is nothing. I only took a little tumble."

Behind her back, Athos raised his brows, shaking his head almost imperceptibly. Clearly, this had just been a sizeable understatement. Instantaneously, the concern for the young woman's safety pushed itself to the forefront of Treville's mind. Yet he kept it to himself.

"Please", he showed her into his office. "We have to talk."

Wordlessly, she went ahead. Athos followed on her foot. It seemed as though he did not even trust her to walk on her own. Whatever had occurred during the attack was making him extremely watchful.

The threat to Désirée de Sauveterre's life was very real. They all knew it. Yet none of them could afford to show concern. Treville was no stranger to her volatile temper. Carefully, he arranged his face. The last thing he wanted now was to fight the young woman.


	4. Old Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some matters, past and present, are in dire need of being settled...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter provides a little breather from the last chapters' action; but this is definitely not the last we have seen of it. More fights, chases and intrigue will follow shortly.  
> Please enjoy and keep the kudos coming. You are a wonderful audience. :)

4\. Old Ghosts

"Do you mind if I sit down?" It was an admission of weakness. Yet Désirée was beyond caring. All day, peril and uncertainty had kept her on edge. Now she paid for it, with terrible exhaustion.

Luckily for them, neither of the two men commented on her request. She sensed the sudden caution in their demeanour. Obviously, the attack had worried them. Treating her like a raw egg would change nothing. Now, however, she was too weary to berate them for it.

"By all means, sit down, Mademoiselle." Courteously, Captain Treville pulled out a chair for her. But, just like Athos, he chose to remain on his feet.

"Thank you." With a tentative smile, Désirée sat.

As she gazed at the captain, the ghost of a memory sent a cold ripple down her spine. She knew him. Yet she did not remember how. The vague shatters of images inside her head made no sense. She pushed them away. "I am sorry for the loss of your comrade", she said sincerely. "He was a good man..."

"Nevertheless, he is dead now." Athos observed from behind her. The tone of his voice was cool, to the point of chilling. He was still blaming her for Blaise's death.

Treville did not seem to share his sentiments. "I assume he lost his life, saving yours?" he inquired more neutrally.

Désirée nodded. "Not that I deserved it", she stated darkly, voicing her guilty feelings. "I should be the one lying dead in that forest."

"On his honour as a gentleman, Captain Blaise would not have allowed it", he replied, apparently intent on not upsetting her.

His caution was unnecessary. Ever since she had been born, rejection had been her constant companion. It no longer had the power to make her crumble. "In fact, he said so himself. Before he died in my arms..."

Behind her, Athos stirred uncomfortably. She heard the sound of his boots, shuffling against the floorboards. Suddenly he appeared by her side, gazing straight into her face. Something had sparked his displeasure yet again. "How did he die?" he questioned. His sharp, demanding tone made it sound as though he wanted some sort of confession. Was it really so hard to believe that she had not killed his fellow man?

"Slowly and not without pain", Désirée narrowed her eyes. "He threw himself in the line of fire and took a musket ball into the back. It probably injured more than one organ, since he was spitting up blood and found it hard to draw breath."

He had given up his life the moment he chose to jump, covering her from the musket fire. She had felt the punch of the shot through the bulk of Blaise's body. It had not harmed her, yet a part of her had died, there and then. The shock had turned her into ice, long enough for the thugs to believe they were both dead. Not caring to check, they had spurred away into the woods.

Oblivious to the tear running down her cheek, Désirée's gaze travelled to and fro between the two men. Athos still looked brooding and hostile. His superior, on the other hand, was frowning, carefully considering his next words:

"I am very sorry you had to witness such a thing, Mademoiselle", he stated, with a sideways glance at Athos. The Musketeer got the message and retreated, leaving her a little more space to breathe.

"Don't worry, Captain", she told him calmly. "I'm no stranger to death. In China, I have seen a lot worse."

"That's not hard to believe", Treville eyed her with a peculiar blend of worry and understanding. "Is there anything you remember about the attackers?"

Désirée took a moment to recall the men who had assailed her on the road. "There were five of them, riding me down. They were very careful not to show their faces..."

"This does not sound unlike the men who attacked us earlier", Athos chimed in unexpectedly. "What if these thugs were hired to go after you?"

She sighed. For once, his deliberations were justified. Yet they were no less moot. "Perhaps. But when I came to the next village, there was talk of them. They had maltreated and murdered a girl who had been out on her own, much like me."

"You should not have travelled alone", the Musketeer observed, beholding her with a reproachful stare.

Désirée gritted her teeth. Only barely did she suppress the urge to punch him. "Do you think I had a choice?" she questioned pointedly.

"There is always a choice", he replied, with a perfectly arrogant air of aloofness.

"And I was very lucky Captain Blaise chose to intervene", she quipped. "It surprised me that he, too, was without company."

"I suppose it does not surprise you any longer?" Treville inquired with yet another frown.

It did not. Désirée knew the right answer to this question would bring her closer to his trust. "No, he was returning from his sister's wedding. He seemed relieved to have seen her married before his demise. And he asked a favour of me..."

She turned to Athos, hoping he had not lost Blaise's locket in the fight. When he pulled it from his purse and put it into the captain's palm, she felt a great pang of relief.

Treville did not need to look at it. Obviously, he had known his comrade's last wishes. Before he passed it back to Athos, he gave her a brief smile. "See that his sister receives it." With this the matter seemed closed for him, for now.

Suddenly, Désirée heard horses in the yard below. Not much later, there were steps on the wooden stairs. She strained her ears, only to find that they sounded familiar. The moment the door cracked open, she roused herself from the chair, a smile crawling onto her face. When Porthos, Aramis and D'Artagnan finally walked into the room, she felt inexplicably grateful to see them here, alive and well.

Perhaps it was merely the relief of not having to be left alone with Athos anymore. Yet, when she beheld Porthos inconspicuously returning her smile, she knew there was more to her newly rising spirits, much more.

xx

When Porthos walked into Treville's office, Désirée smiled. At the same time, she looked rumpled and shaken from the fight. It had been more than enough to melt the last of her superficial coolness. Porthos felt the urge to run a hand through her dark hair. It stood on edge, flitting about, along with her ever-watchful eyes.

But now was a bad time. One look at Athos's gloomy face told him that he had had it with her again. His friend was a master at holding grudges. Yet, right now, his talent was anything but useful. They had enough problems on their hands without it.

At least, the captain looked sanguine enough. With a perfectly composed expression, he beheld him, Aramis and D'Artagnan. "Athos already told me of the attack. What of the attackers though?" he folded his arms, eyeing them shrewdly. "I hope you have left some for questioning?"

Next to Porthos, Aramis twitched. He took off his hat and gazed at the floor. No doubt, he had been especially trigger-happy today. "Well, they...", he began quietly, like a schoolboy awaiting a beating. "One of them might still come around."

Porthos suppressed a snort. As ever, Aramis presented the perfect impression of guilt. But Treville was not mollified by it, not today. Exasperated, he glared into the round. "I would hope so. Matters are too serious for us to lose vital intelligence", he sighed. "But it can't be helped now."

"Yet, after all, you did your duty. And I am most grateful of it", Désirée commented. All heads in the room turned towards her. She had settled back on her chair, gazing at them all with an unreadable expression. Something was bothering her. "Surely, they will not rest after this. You will find someone to question next time around."

"But why?" D'Artagnan blurted out. His words nailed the general sentiment to the spot.

Slowly, Désirée shook her head, gazing at Treville for a better explanation.

"My only guess at the moment is one of Monseignieur de Sauveterre's old enemies seeking revenge", the captain allowed. Porthos did not fail to notice his apprehension as he spoke.

Yet Désirée barely reacted to his words. On the outside, they did not touch her.

Athos, though, had something to add. "If we want to find out more, we should further investigate Captain Blaise's death."

"You should", the captain agreed. "I want you to ride to Le Havre tomorrow."

"And I'm coming with you." It was no request. Désirée was on her feet again with a dead-set look of determination in her eyes.

Porthos smirked. She was such an unyielding little thing. Travelling with her would prove very interesting. If only to see Athos struggle with his countenance...

And he was struggling already. "After what happened today, you better stay here", he stated, his tone surprisingly calm. "Next time, I might not be able to save you from killing yourself out of folly..."

"Folly?" she scowled. "I knew what I was doing."

Porthos had heard enough. His mate was being unfair. Her little combat stunt had been anything but suicidal. "Come on, give her some credit. I'd like to see you kick a goon twice your size in the face."

"Not my point." Athos remained stubborn. "It could have gone wrong. And next time, it probably will."

"Says the man who lost count of the attackers", Désirée quipped. "Yet you still believe my skills are inferior. I would not have thought you to be so arrogant."

A tense silence settled over the room. Challenging Athos was dangerous business, especially if he already despised you. So far, Désirée had failed to learn that lesson.

"I am not underestimating you, Mademoiselle", he replied coolly, giving her one last chance to turn back. "Yet your safety is my responsibility."

She blithely ignored his offer of peace. "If you weren't so busy patronizing me, you would see how there is no safe refuge for me. Right now, I'm better off going with you."

"That may be so", Athos straightened. He had spoken equably. Yet his cold, smouldering glare was no longer a warning shot. "However, your volatile behaviour is a risk to us all."

His deadpan words stung. Infuriated, Désirée clenched her hands into fists. She took a deep breath to calm herself. Yet it did not work in the slightest. "You have no business telling me how to behave..." she growled, ready to jump right at him.

That moment, Treville's flat hand slapped against his desk with a loud snap. "Enough, both of you", he commanded sharply. Within a split second, his even mood had evaporated into nothingness.

Porthos uttered a quiet sigh of relief. Had he not stepped in, the two would have gone on indefinitely, until someone got hurt.

"Athos, I understand your concern. But Mademoiselle de Sauveterre will indeed be safer in your company", the captain said firmly. Clearly he had no patience for their bickering. "She is going with you."

"Of course", Athos replied with a level stare at Désirée who was eagerly glaring back at him. "If there is nothing else..."

"Not for the moment. Dismissed", Treville took up the notion most readily. Yet he was not done with all of them.

Slowly, Porthos moved towards the door. It seemed wise to give Athos a little head start. Judging from the speed of his strides, he was in no companionable mood.

When Athos was out of sight, Désirée made to follow them. But that did not work out.

"You will stay here", Treville ordered her, perhaps a little too harshly.

She flinched, freezing on the spot. There was a glint of guilt in her eyes. She had misbehaved. Yet Porthos doubted the captain would scold her, much...

In passing, he winked at her. As there was no reaction, he went on and closed the door behind him. Only barely did he suppress the urge to stay and eavesdrop.

xx

Wordlessly, Treville beheld the young woman in front of him. When the other men had left, her defiant air of courage had gone with them. And here she was now, shamefaced, staring at her feet.

"What was that about?" he inquired, folding his arms.

"I..." she faltered. As her eyes raised up at him, he saw great apprehension. A part of her was afraid of him.

With a sigh, the captain leaned against his desk. "I'm not going to shout at you."

In a show of relief, her shoulders slumped a little. "I wouldn't know", she muttered, tension still thick in her words. "My father never shouted."

"Of course not", Treville nodded. Jean-Marie de Sauveterre had never had the need to yell at anyone. His intimidating presence had always served the purpose. The captain wondered why she should mention it. Did she recall his involvement after all? "I am sorry for your loss, Mademoiselle."

Mademoiselle de Sauveterre merely shrugged. She plunked back down on the chair. Out of nowhere, a belligerent glare had materialized in her fiery eyes. "He ticks me off."

His brow twitched upwards. The sudden jump back to his question had ambushed him. It seemed as though the fickle, explosive three-year-old of yore had just crept out of hiding again.

"Who, Athos?" the captain inquired with perfect serenity.

"Who else?" she glowered, disappointed he had not jumped at her provocation. With Athos, matters were the same. And it disgruntled her.

"Well, he is a good man", he told her matter-of-factly. "It might not appear that way, but he acts with your best interest at heart. You will have to get on with him."

Mademoiselle rolled her eyes. "Better him than the cardinal..."

The mention of Richelieu sparked both anger and a nagging sense of concern in him. Treville narrowed his eyes. "What did he want of you?"

"Inquire about my business here." Her tone was unemotional. Yet her clenched jaw gave away the heated emotion boiling underneath. "And inform me what will happen, should I misbehave."

The consequences would be dire. He wondered if her father had ever let on about the cardinal's plans for her. When she had been born, Richelieu had just been ordained bishop. In her, he had seen his chance to set an example, advancing his rise to power. Luckily, times had changed. The cardinal had little use for her now. This, however, did not mean she was safe from his machinations. "What did you tell him?"

"The truth", the corner of her mouth twitched mischievously. "Well, half of it."

"What is the other half then?" Treville asked sternly. She was ignorant of the stakes attached to her presence here. Otherwise, she had not spoken so lightly.

The young woman's eyes widened. She understood. After a moment of silent reluctance, she told him: "I am looking for my mother. That is, whatever is left of her. Of course, I know self-murderers are not buried in sacred earth but... they did not allow me to mourn my father, so I left. And now I thought..."

She was distraught now, almost prattling. "They?" he inquired gently, giving her a chance to collect her thoughts.

"The Jesuits", Mademoiselle groaned, pulling a pained face. "Do you know anything about her grave's whereabouts?"

"No, I'm sorry." He truly was. The suicide of the Vicomptesse de Lévesque had been shrouded in mystery. It had happened. That was all he knew for certain. Any other details were the cardinal's secret alone. Not even as an infant, had she known her mother. And next, she would have lost her father through exile. The cruelty of it had been unfathomable to Treville. Driven by an idealist's sense of justice, the young soldier had chosen his side.

"There is no need", she stated quietly, disappointment plain on her pale face.

The saddened look in her eyes took him back to the night he had secretly snatched up the kicking, screaming toddler, taking her to her father. To safety...

"Perhaps it was never meant to be..." she said wistfully. Brushing some dirt off her sleeve, she stood. "But I'm keeping you from more important matters."

"You are not", Treville replied sincerely. Mademoiselle de Sauveterre was more important to him than she knew. "Yet I would appreciate if you stayed out of trouble from now on."

"Surely, involvement in a murder is trouble enough", absent-mindedly, she ran a hand through her black hair. "Had our paths not crossed, Captain Blaise would still be alive."

He shook his head at the notion. "You don't know that. And, as a soldier, he knew the stakes. What is more important now, is to exonerate you before the cardinal gets the wrong impression."

At that, she smirked. "You are sure I did not kill him?"

"Don't give me any ideas, Mademoiselle", the captain half-closed his eyes.

"Not my intention", she blushed, realizing how inappropriate this last, sarcastic jibe had just been. "And thank you for your protection."

"It is the least I can do", Treville observed. With that, their interview was concluded. Slowly, Mademoiselle turned, moving towards the door. "And, one more thing..."

Her back straightened as she held on in mid -step. "Yes?" She did not turn back. He guessed she did not want him to see he had startled her yet again.

"Take care that my men stay safe", he continued with a little smile.

Now she was looking at him, a playful grin on her face. "I will, as long as Athos does not feel patronized."

Slowly she faced away and made for the door. Without so much as a footfall, she slipped from the room. A strange sense of relief caused Treville to sigh. It felt as though a ghost from his past had just evaporated in front of his very eyes.

The young woman was the image of her late father, headstrong and determined. Yet he could also see her fragility, her tenderness. She was still like a child to him, in dire need of protection. He prayed that his decision to send her out with the men would be right. But they were the best. And to ride with them removed her from Richelieu's grasp.

The cardinal was no immediate threat now. But matters could change in an instant. It had been the same with her father's sudden exile. Yet now, two decades later, rescuing Mademoiselle de Sauveterre would not leave Treville as unscathed. Times were very different today.


	5. The Perils Of Swordplay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An attack awaits the Musketeers and Désirée.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes a slightly better action sequence than the first one. I hope you enjoy it. =)

5\. The Perils Of Swordplay

Paris was waking beyond the garrison walls. Désirée closed her eyes, breathing in the faraway sounds. The cold of dawn snagged at her legs, creeping through the thin silk of the _aoqun_. She had to stay warm. Slowly she spread out her arms, tensing her muscles. She flexed her hands, coaxing the energy to flow into her fingertips. Breathing deeply, she raised her arms over her head in a circular motion. Without much thought, routine took over. One foot left the ground, crossing behind the other. Her knees bent, following the motion. A split second later, her leg snapped up in a crisp sideways kick. In mid-move,tion, she retracted it. It gave her enough propulsion to spin around. Crouching she landed, palms touching the earth.

Désirée was ready to jump back up, but something kept her. At once she felt agitated and unsteady. It made no sense. It was not like her to stall in the middle of a routine. With a sigh she stood. She brought her palms together, taking some long, deep breaths. The cool morning air cleared her head a little. But suddenly the hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

"Aren't you cold?"

It was Porthos. Surely, he had been watching her for some time. He seemed to be curious enough for it. Désirée did not turn to face him immediately. Instead, she ran her cupped hands over her face. While she did it, tiredness seeped into her bones, reminding her that she had not slept all night.

"Isn't it a little early for you?" she let fall her hands and turned around. "I heard you snoring not long ago."

"I don't snore", Porthos looked ready to pout.

"Fool yourself with that", she walked towards him. "And what am I to do? My shift needed to soak."

The backhanded confession made him smirk. "Perhaps you should wallow in the dirt less."

"Funny", Désirée rolled her eyes. She could not laugh at the jape. The ability to defend herself seemed strange enough to provoke constant ridicule. But she knew better than to take offence. It was easier to humour him. Tentatively, she touched Porthos's arm. "Would you do me a favour?"

"It depends", shrewdly, he eyed her up and down.

"Could I please have my _jian_ back?" she asked, perhaps a little too sharply.

But Porthos was too confused to notice. "Who is Jean?" he frowned.

"My sword...", she began again, suppressing a sigh of exasperation.

"Your sword is called Jean?" he raised a teasing eyebrow.

Désirée groaned. "No. It's a _jian_. Why the hell should I name it after my father?" she added, wincing at the mere idea.

"Does everything in Cathay have a funny name?" Porthos inquired, not hiding his grin.

She rolled her eyes. "Could you just go and get it... please?"

"Fine", he winked at her. "Looks like you can use it."

"Thanks.", Sshe offered him the tiniest of smiles and watched him walk away. Now she was alone in the yard again.

Feeling unwatched, she approached the trestle table in the far corner. She swung her legs onto one of the benches. Without much effort, they slipped into the splits. Gingerly, she bent sideways, grasping her ankle with both hands. At once she felt incredibly tired. With a heavy sigh she rested her head against her shin. For a moment, she allowed her eyes to close. But she stayed alert, listening to the wind stirring the sand and gravel around the yard.

Suddenly there were footsteps crackling against the gravel. Désirée strained her ears. They were headed her way. But there was no hurry in them. For a moment, she thought Porthos had returned. But the direction was not quite right. Whoever it was, he posed no threat. So she did not stir, choosing ignorance over curiosity.

Then, suddenly, she sensed a tiny whiff of air close to her neck. Someone was reaching out to touch her. Within seconds, Désirée came to her senses. Her hand shot up, grasping the intruder's wrist. When her head whipped around, she found D'Artagnan frowning, down at her. With a quick tug, he freed his arm. Désirée could have clung on, but she let it go, contenting herself with a venomous glare.

"You have no business touching me", she hissed.

The young man shrugged, ignorant of all guilt. "I just wanted to be sure you're not dead."

"How very thoughtful..." Désirée rolled her eyes, "for a five-year-old." She bent the other way. On the inside, she was seething over his insolence, yet she was in no mood for a quarrel.

Her insult made D'Artagnan balk. After a moment of staring back in cold, moody silence he steered clear of her. Quickly, he rounded the table and settled down, as far away from her as possible.

That moment, Porthos returned, carrying her _jian_ under one arm. As he walked around the corner, his gaze traveled from D'Artagnan to her and back.

With a grateful smile, Désirée swung her legs over the bench and held out her hand for the weapon.

"I wouldn't do that", D'Artagnan muttered darkly.

But Porthos merely smirked. "Have you two been at it again?" he inquired, barely holding back a chuckle.

Désirée shrugged, "Monsieur merely asked for another lesson in manners."

"Fair enough. Will you promise me not to skewer him?", with a wink, Porthos held out the sword hilt to her.

She nodded. As she reclaimed her blade, she leaned closer, whispering, "As a rule, I don't slay virgins."

It was a cruel jape, but she could not help it. Yet, only seconds later, she regretted it. A familiar voice spoke up from close behind her. It belonged to the one person she had been striving to avoid since yesterday's events: Athos.

"No matter whom you slay, you will have to answer to me."

Désirée froze. She had not felt his approach. And now, he had overheard everything. Stiffly, she stepped away from the bench. It was only a matter of seconds before he would demand the surrender of her beloved sword once more. Not again... Firmly her fingers clenched around the smooth, gilt scabbard. This time, she would not let it go without a fight.

"Another death is not in my interest", she retorted, still not turning to face him.

"I will take your word for it", with surprising calmness, Athos circled around her. As he sat down on the bench, she noticed the tiniest of smirks, flitting across his, otherwise deadpan, face. It was a good day.

Yet, Désirée was unsure what to do. She shot Porthos a searching glance. But he merely shrugged, nodding at the vacant spot next to his comrade.

Cautiously, she followed his suggestion and settled down by Athos's side. With a sideways glance at him, she drew the sword.

Across the table, D'Artagnan's eyes widened dangerously. He still did not trust her. Carefully, she ran a fingertip along the blade's edge. It was dull from disuse. Otherwise there would have been blood.

Désirée sighed. "Does anyone have a ...?"

She did not have to finish the request. Unasked, Athos produced his whetstone. Without any fuss, he put it into her palm. "Don't forget to hone the point."

This was the last thing she had expected from him. It seemed he had changed his mind about her. When she had curbed the worst of her surprise, she awarded him a shy smile. "Thank you. What I said yesterday..."

"I believe you were in shock?" He glanced at her with a strange mix of warning and reconciliation. Perhaps this was his version of an apology. Their falling-out seemed forgotten.

"Possibly", she accepted it more than gladly. Feeling the weight of the stone in her right hand, she set out to sharpen the _jian_. With long, dilligent strokes she revived its razor-sharp double edge. The sword had suffered ever since she had embarked on the journey to France. But, within a matter of minutes, the blemishes were gone.

Désirée wished her own woes could be fixed quite as easily. It was a futile hope. With a quiet sigh she handed the stone back to Athos, dismissing the thought.

Gingerly, she pulled the blade's edge against a strand of her hair. At the lightest touch, a fine, dusty spray of black hairs evaporated into the air.

"This should do", she reversed the sword and rose to her feet. To feel its familiar weight in her hand again was a great comfort. Désirée moved her sword arm behind her back. With a practiced motion of her wrist, she twirled the _jian_ over her head. As it circled in midair, she swept out one leg. Once her knee touched the ground, she brought down her free hand. In a sharp turn around her own axis, she jumped back up, moving the sword with her body.

Back in her initial position she stopped, taking in the frowns of the Musketeers. Meanwhile Aramis had joined them. He eyed her with an infuriatingly cocky air of amusement.

"It's no rapier", she stated, fully expecting a hailstorm of snidey remarks. But none came.

As she reached for the scabbard, she caught Athos's eye. He looked back at her thoughtfully. It was as though he had a question on his mind. But he never asked it. There were more pressing matters at hand. "If we are to return to the garrison before nightfall, you should stop showing off now, Mademoiselle."

"I was merely...", Désirée began. But his resolute demeanour left no room for arguments. Sighing she flung the scabbard over her shoulder.

"What of breakfast, though?", Aramis inquired. "We don't want you falling off your horse again." His unnecessary jape hurt; but he had a point. She had already skipped dinner. And even now, after a short, sleepless night, she was still far from hungry. Her body was too upset to eat. Yet, in a try to placate his concerns, Désirée shrugged. "Maybe a little bit."

"I insist." Aramis tossed her an apple. She snatched it in midair and hurried for the stairs without another word. She was too cold to stay. Remorselessly, the icy morning air bit into her thighs. It was due time to don her skirts. Otherwise she would freeze to death, long before starvation, or her countless enemies, got a piece of her.

xx

She was not fooling him. Aramis knew Mademoiselle de Sauveterre was bone tired. The way she sat her horse, ramrod straight and alert, did not change the fact. At night, he had heard her pacing the upstairs gallery. No doubt, something was troubling her, or a lot of things... And sooner or later, she would wear herself out over them. Worriedly, he glanced at her, wondering if he should say something.

He did not have to. Suddenly Mademoiselle's head whipped around. She had felt his eyes on her back. "Is something wrong?" she questioned a little too harshly.

"Nothing. I was merely wondering..." He could not mention his concerns now. They would only upset her more. But what should he talk about instead?

"I think Aramis would like to know where you learned to fight like that", Porthos chimed in. With a knowing smirk, he pulled up next to Aramis. As so often, his friend had saved him from putting his foot in his mouth.

"Ah, that", Mademoiselle sighed. But she bought it.

"I learned the art from a few monks."

"Warrior monks?" The thought amused Aramis. "I know Jesuits like to consider themselves soldierly; but that..."

"Oh yes, the papal strike force." She smirked at the notion. "But no. These monks lived in the mountains and believed in a different god."

Porthos frowned. "How did you meet them then?"

"I started running away from the mission when I was about eight", Mademoiselle shrugged as though it was the most natural thing to do. But Aramis understood. Living with a brotherhood of priests had to be tough on a lively young girl.

"What of your father?" he asked cautiously, "Didn't he mind?"

She snorted derisively. "My father, Monsieur, was glad not to be reminded of his transgressions each and every day. So he let me go.

"He wasn't even worried when his daughter came home with a sword?" Porthos inquired with a wink.

"He gave it to me", she replied deadpan. "Lest one day words would not be enough to defend myself."

Aramis smiled to himself. It was as though the Monseignieur had foreseen the shambles mess his daughter was facing now. "Words or Musketeers..." he muttered.

For a split second, Mademoiselle's jaw dropped. He guessed that she felt patronized by his words. But he never found out.

Suddenly D'Artagnan galloped towards them from behind. When he had reached them, he cast a worried look over his shoulder. Only then did he slow down. "Trouble. Five riders, approaching fast..."

They had to move. Athos was riding further ahead. Once they had caught up with him, they would decide the next step. "Come on", Aramis spurred on his horse.

The others followed, taking Mademoiselle into their middle. In spite of all hurry, her safety was paramount.

Quickly they galloped down the narrowing dirt road. Beyond the sandy dust the horses kicked up, the vegetation thickened. When they finally reached Athos, they were passing the outskirts of the forest.

He was alert the second he spotted them. "What's going on?" he demanded, curbing his horse.

"Company", D'Artagnan nodded into the direction they had come from. "There are five of them."

For Porthos, things were not moving fast enough. "Do we run or do we fight?" he demanded. Aramis felt his restlessness.

"It is too risky", Athos replied, gazing at Mademoiselle.

She said nothing. But her jaw tightened. At least he had had the grace not to say they were outnumbered. Still, her anger was unmistakable.

"It's for the best", Aramis said quietly.

Her head whipped around at him again. She disagreed. "It's not", she snapped.

Athos was less than happy to hear her opinion. "I will not discuss this with you", he told her evenly.

"But you will listen", she retorted, not having any of it. "What if they are driving us into an ambush? We both know they want to see me dead at all costs. Do you really think they will only send five men for the job? And we have a territorial advantage. You are soldier enough to see it."

She had a point. Aramis had no idea what part of her lecture had done the trick, but it had even swayed Athos.

"Fine", he said grimly. "But you will stay out of this."

Almost relieved, Mademoiselle nodded. "You have my word."

"I hope you won't break it", Athos replied warningly. He turned towards Porthos. "Look after her."

With that, the matter was settled for him. He turned his horse and rode deeper into the trees. Quickly Aramis followed. They had wasted precious minutes. It was due time to prepare for the enemy.

xx

"Come on", Porthos called, racing ahead.

Désirée followed, dashing through the underbrush. At once her mind was racing. There was only one thought: Not again. Not again. Not again. Her blood was boiling with rage. She wanted them to leave her alone.

D'Artagnan was riding behind her. She felt him, but did not dare to look back.

As the trees thickened around them, darkness fell. Désirée listened. There was nothing, only the muffled hoofbeats of their horses. Suddenly the loud crack of shattering splintering wood split the air. Momentarily, she froze. The enemy was here. Her gaze darted around, full of anxiety. The attackers were invisible in the gloom. They could be right next to her. Where were they? As her eyes adapted she saw vague shapes in the low light, racing past. But there was nothing

She sped ahead, closing in on Porthos. Dread clawed at her. Her breath came in ragged gasps. She forced herself to breathe deeply, conquering her quivering muscles.

When she reached Porthos, his presence eased her mind. Unfazed by the chase, he slowed his horse. Quickly he grasped her mount's bridle to keep her from speeding past. As he saw the panicked stare in her eyes, he laid his hand on her arm. "Don't worry, we're fine."

How could he be so sure? "I heard them..." she began, her voice heavy with apprehension.

Porthos shook his head. "Look", he gave her his spyglass, pointing ahead.

She took it with shaky fingers. When she peered through, she saw them: a column of five cloaked men, cantering along the road. They made no effort to hide or leave their path. She wondered how long their confidence would last.

Behind her, D'Artagnan closed up. He seemed less at ease. "Are we ready?"

"Give it a moment", Porthos coaxed forward his horse.

Désirée tossed him the glass. "What about me?" She dreaded the answer. The last thing she wanted now was to hide away on her own.

"Come along, but stay out of the way", Porthos told her.

"Easily said..." she muttered. But there was no time to argue.

Suddenly a whistle rang through the trees. The others were in position. It was time for battle.

D'Artagnan kicked his horse forward. As he passed by, her mount sped along in his wake. It was nervous, just like her. Its sudden movement swerved her forward in the saddle, but she clung to the horse's neck, soothing it. By the time she regained control, the Musketeers had already broken through the treeline.

The first sounds of the fight reached her. Désirée dug her heels into the mare's flank. She wanted to see what was happening. Racing through the shadows of the trees, she rode closer. By the time she reached the battle, the fight was at its height.

Only one attacker was still mounted. The instant she passed him, a single well-aimed shot struck him in the shoulder, mere seconds beforejust as his hand touched gripped touched the pistol in his saddle holster. He fell at her horse's feet, twitching in his death-throes. When she faced away from the dying man, she saw Aramis. Almost calmly he exchanged his pistol for the rapier. As he leapt from the saddle and charged into the melee, steel clashed upon steel throwing fiery sparks.

The sight of the slaughter sent icy ripples down Désirée's back. All of this was her fault. But she had no time to think. Suddenly, another shot split the air. Right behind her, something hard hit the dirt with a loud thump. Désirée spun around. Another enemy man lay at her feet. His face and scalp were bloodied and he was moaning in agony. Yet he failed to die.

She could not avert her eyes as the black-cloaked stranger kept on shuddering and gasping. Suffering had always been her unwanted companion. But this was too much. Désirée gasped. She felt herself zoning out, unable to stop it. There was only him now. The horror of his injury filled every pore of her. She tried to ban him from her thoughts, but her mind would not obey. At last she managed to close her eyes, but the image lingered, even in the darkness.

Out of nowhere, a hand gripped her shoulder. The touch snapped her out of the trance. Her body reacted right away, bracing to fight. Her arm lashed out backwards. Only split seconds before it hit home, she saw her mistake: Nobody was attacking her.

It was only D'Artagnan. "Whoa", he dodged her hit, catching her fist in his other palm. But he kept holding on.

Désirée was too stunned to reply. Wordlessly she shook him off. As she looked around, she realized that the battle was won. The five attackers lay sprawled on the ground, their blood seeping into the dry earth.

He frowned at her full of concern. "Are you all right?" As she did not answer, he groped for more words to add. "Fighting can be messy business..." he muttered.

It was the wrong thing to say. Désirée half-closed her eyes, "It's not about the bloodshed." It was about the needless pain. She leapt off the horse. He set out to say something more, but she ignored him, focusing on the gravelly dirt crunching underneath her boots.

Slowly she approached the wounded man. Motionless and pale, he lay at her feet. Without a second thought, she knelt down next to him. Now she heard his breath, coming in shallow, barely audible gasps. He did not have long.

As Désirée grasped his hand, his sightless eyes looked up at her. She lowered her head in prayer, enclosing his hand between her palms. He had been sent to kill her, yet she did not want him to suffer for it in hell. Purgatory was bad enough...

At once his body began to heave in its death-throes. Blood dripped into her lap as he roused himself for one final time. "Forgive me..." he gasped, summoning the last of his strength. Mere seconds later he collapsed; falling silent forever.

"I forgive you", gently she closed his blood-encrusted eyes, making the sign of the cross over his body.

As she stood, she found the four Musketeers staring at her from atop their horses. They did not understand.

"You have an eerie record of men dying in your arms", Athos commented matter-of-factly.

"At least I am able to feel compassion", with slow, deliberate steps she returned to her horse. "Some deaths are necessary, but they must not be forgotten."

"Do you pray for all of them?" Aramis asked. The notion seemed to intrigue him more than a little.

"Naturally", she took back her horse's reins from D'Artagnan. "Do good to those that hate you; and pray for those that persecute you."

It was what her father had taught her. He had preached reconciliation until the very last moment. If she strayed from it now, she would betray him and the legacy he had left her.

"Of course", Aramis nodded, "but I would not take it quite as literally."

Désirée sighed. "You would not have the time; at the rate you kill them off."

It was a simple observation, devoid of all criticism. They all did what they had to do, no more. Yet D'Artagnan chose to be offended. She saw it in the way his lips formed the most disapproving pout. Yet he remained silent.

Instead, another sound caught her attention. A vague roaring had arisen in the distance. As it neared, the roar picked up a rhythm. At once a tidal wave of uncounted beats rolled in on them, cut off and muffled by the ground's packed earth. Startled Désirée gazed into the distance. Ahead of the horizon a tell-tale cloud of dust had formed. More riders... Her hand was frozen to the saddle's pommel. The sight of her greatest fear left her unable to remount. She had felt it coming.

Désirée's glance found Athos. Any second now, he would tell her to sit up and run. Before he got the chance to utter a single word, she shook her head. It was too late to escape.

"Here." Even though he still looked displeased, D'Artagnan offered her a hand. As she nodded, he pulled her up.

From the corner of her eye she saw the next enemy wave rushing in. She counted eight, if not more, coming upon them in a black, faceless cloud.

D'Artagnan gave the horse's bridle a tug. The animal turned around. She felt it sverve underneath her. Sverving itIt swerved turned underneath her. Together they sped back into the forest. It happened fast. She did not see the others anymore. They had to be following, watching their backs.

Again, the trees rushed past as they dove deeper into the shadows. This time, the enemy followed. She saw their movements through the tree trunks. They were trying to outrun them, ready to cut them off.

But it would not be as easy. D'Artagnan's pistol flashed in the low light. On the other side of the treeline a man was struck down. As he fell, she saw him scream. But she did not hear any sound. The shot had deafened her.

From the corner of her eye she saw D'Artagnan's lips moving. As her head whipped around towards him, her hearing returned, sharp as a whiplash.

"Look out!" he called, urgency crisp in his voice.

The next instant, a musket ball struck a nearby tree. It happened so fast, she had no time to react. Wooden fragmentsWooden shattersFragments of wood and bark flew everywhere. Désirée ducked, kicking her mount forwardmare. Only barely did she escape the crippling hail of debris.

Suddenly, another shot rang through the air. It came close. Its sheer force stirred her hair. Désirée winced. As the horse ran on, she struggled to beat her fear. At last she peered over her shoulder. Behind her, something moved in the foliage. She strained her eyes to see it. Then the silvery flash of reflected sunlight betrayed the threat: A sniper... and he was onto her again. She saw the spark of the prime. It was too late to get away.

That moment a forceful blow swept her off the saddle. It was D'Artagnan. The weight of his body pushed her to the ground. The same second, the shot's explosion shook her body. Suddenly she heard a heart-rending, agonized shriek. A growing shadow followed in its wake. Her horse had been hit. Now it was falling, threatening to crush them. Full of alarm, she yanked D'Artagnan's sleeve.

He rolled over with a curse. As they trundled through the dirt, the horse crashed to the ground in a cloud of earth and dead leavesfs. D'Artagnan used the momentary distraction to take cover between the trees. Unceremoniously he dragged her with him. Then he pulled out his pistol.

Once he had spotted the sniper, he leapt forward. With his body flat on the ground, he fired over her horse's flailing bulk. There was a scream, followed by silence.

As he dove back into cover, D'Artagnan eyed her dirt-stained clothes apologetically. "Sorry about that."

"Call it even." She replied with a sudden pang of guilt about her earlier japes. There was more to him than she had given him credit for.

At once, the noise of battle broke all over them. From one moment to the next, it rushed in like a fatal horseman. The others had engaged the remaining enemy soldiers.

Out of nowhere, an attacker raced towards them from the thicket, rapier in hand.

"Behind you!" Désirée yelled.

D'Artagnan spun around. Leg-first, he slid forward, kicking the running man's groin. The move bought him just enough time to draw his own blade. In a sweeping blow he brought it up to meet the next hit. The steel sang as their rapiers clashed.

The attacker's cuts were brutal, but he parried them all, driving him back. But suddenly, a powerful forward thrust nearly caught his chest. D'Artagnan bent backwards, reaching for the dagger at his hip. With clenched teeth he twisted it in his hand. Forcefully, he rammed it into the other man's stomach.

All of a sudden, a loud slam caught Désirée's attention. Leafs Leaves rained down as suddenly Porthos collided with the tree next to her. An enemy swordsman followed him. His blade flashed dangerously in the air.

But Porthos merely ducked, head-butting him into the chest. As he doubled over, he grabbed the attacker's hair and rammed him face-first into the tree trunk. At the same moment, another enemy broke from the underbrush. He ran towards Porthos from behind, his pistol ready to fire in his outstretched hand.

In slow motion, Porthos turned. The air caught in Désirée's throat. This was going to end badly. Without warning, her instincts took over. With one hand she pushed off the ground. In the same motion, her other hand drew the _jian_. The blade sang as it swished over her shoulder. In mid-leap, she spun the weapon in the air. With a hiss, it struck the shooter's wrist.

Instantaneously, droplets of bright red blood sprayed up, accompanied by the ear-splitting noise of the misguided shot. Swearing, the man clutched his hand. She had surprised him. The startled look on his face made it clear. But the surprise did not last.

At once he spun around at her, his hideous face contorted with anger. He fumbled for his sword. Désirée was still crouching on the earth. If he got her now, she was lost. But not yet. Her leg snapped up in a fast kick. Her body arched upwards as her foot buried itself in the small of his half-turned back. Off balance, he stumbled right into Porthos's arms.

At the same time, her leg's momentum sent Désirée reeling sideways. Finally, she landed on her palms, her face inches from the dirt. As she pushed off again, she spotted D'Artagnan, engaged in another swordfight. This time, he was losing. He barely held his ground. With ill-concealed desperation, he parried his opponent's fierce strikes. It was only a matter of time before he would succumb to this unending cascade of well-aimed blows.

The thought of anyone else dying for her, roused Désirée to her feet. Within a split second, she was up and running. D'Artagnan's opponent had his back towards her. Before he noticed her approach, she brought up the _jian_. It caught him between the shoulder blades. With one last gasp, he sunk to the ground. When she looked up from the body, D'Artagnan was staring at her with wide eyes.

What had she done? Realization hit her with an iron fist. She had just killed a man. Gasping she clutched her heaving chest. Her lips moved in a mute prayer, asking forgiveness. Then she saw that D'Artagnan's horror was not about the slaughter. He was staring at something behind her, frozen with mortification.

At once, she sensed a dangerous presence. Ripples of ice ran down her back. Instinctively she ducked. As she did, the edge of a dagger sheared off a strand of her hair. Startled, Désirée threw herself to the ground. The blade whistled in the air as it lashed out for the next slash. For a moment, it snagged at her calf, but she felt nothing. Confident that he had missed, she rolled over, trying to escape the cuts. But her attempt was futile:

Heavily, her back touched the wet soil. Above her, the black-cloaked figure raised the dagger for another strike. Then, suddenly his arm flew backwards at an unnatural angle. A bullet had snatched the weapon from his hand.

As it scythed through the air, her gaze followed. Finally it found Aramis. He was a few feet away, reloading his pistol as he sped towards her. Athos followed closely in his wake. Quickly she twisted around to crawl out of the way. The enemy still cast his shadow upon her. Despite his injury, he tried to grab her. She felt his stiff fingers digging into her ankle. The move unbalanced him completely. As he fell over, his heavy bulk pinned her down.

The impact sent a shudder through her body. She tried to wriggle her legs, to kick herself free. But the man was like a millstone, tacking her down. But Aramis was here now. With a powerful kick into the shoulder, he levered the enemy off her.

At the same time, she felt someone grasping her arms. Alerted she looked up. But it was only Porthos. Effortlessly, he pulled her to her feet.

"Let's get you out of here", he said, taking her hand.

With fast steps, he guided her through the forest, away from the dying fight. He cast several looks over his shoulder, before he was assured of their safety. At long last, he allowed her to rest.

"Thanks", Désirée breathed as she grabbed a thick branch for support. For the first time she realized that she was panting.

Porthos frowned at her. He seemed very worried. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"I should be..." she answered quietly. It was a well-meant lie. She felt weak now. The images of the battle were flooding her head, dizzying her.

Suddenly a sharp, fiery pain bit into her leg. It began to spasm. Désirée gasped. The fighting had nothing to do with her sudden nausea. It was the shock of an injury. And now it was wearing off.

Before she could warn Porthos, the cloud of rising unconsciousness wrapped itself around her. She felt no pain. Yet there was blood. Hotly, it ran down her leg; hidden from view. It was as though all energy began to seep from her body. Without warning, she collapsed. A bottomless abyss of darkness opened up beneath her. As she fell, her mind screamed at the injustice. The Musketeers had fought and killed to protect her. But she had failed them. She struggled against the oncoming blackness, afraid what would expect her on the other side. If she woke, they would hate her; if she died, she would go straight to hell for murdering a man. But she lost the battle. Once her head hit the ground, there was only nothingness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note: On re-reading the chapter I realized that Désirée's Chinese garb is missing the skirt that is usually part of an _aoqun_. But then again, it is not surprising she would get annoyed with it and misplace it, either... ;)


	6. Drawing Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Désirée's life is at stake, more secrets and questions surface...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes the next chapter. There is quite a bit of action and adventure yet to come, so I hope you can bear with Désirée and her issues for a little while longer. ;) Enjoy! :)

6\. Drawing Blood

One moment she was standing. The next she was down. "No!" Porthos rushed forward but he was too late to catch her. When her body touched the ground, leaves and dry soil billowed into the air. They cushioned her fall.

Porthos was on his knees now, hovering over her. "Désirée?" She twitched. Briefly, her eyes opened, but they were dull. When her eyelids fluttered shut again, her body collapsed, senseless. "Stay with me..." his hand cupped her cheek, slapping it. Nothing...

He was about to try harder, but there was a firm touch against his arm, stopping him: Aramis. Porthos had not noticed his friend's approach. But he was glad to see him.

"She's in shock, it won't help", Aramis pushed his hand away. Then he bent over, listening to her breathing. Almost instantly, his face clouded with worry. He touched her neck, feeling for a pulse. After a moment he looked up, slowly shaking his head. "It's very faint. She must be losing blood. Did you see what happened?"

Porthos frowned. He had freed her from underneath a wounded man's body. He had been fighting before, too distracted to watch her. And he cursed himself for that. Yet, suddenly, he recalled a single detail. When she had fallen, one leg had given out first.

Almost frantically, he yanked up her skirts, the image of her fall still burned into his mind's eye.

When the fabric revealed her left calf, it was a crimson mess. Dark blood was seeping through a ragged tear in her slacks, soaking everything in a pool of deep red. She had been stabbed, badly. A gasp escaped him. By the looks of it, the odds were against her.

Aramis knew it, too. But he would not give up. With professional coolness, he raised her leg off the ground. "If she is to have any chance, we must staunch the bleeding." He rested Désirée's ankle against his shoulder, grabbing a firm hold of the artery in the bend of her knee. "Give me your scarf."

Without a second thought, Porthos snatched the black cloth off his head, tossing it over. When his friend tied it around her knee, he flinched.

"Will she lose the leg?" he asked, willing his voice not to shake.

"I'm more worried about her life right now", Aramis replied matter-of-factly. He produced a clean handkerchief and pushed it into Porthos's hand. "Keep pressure on that wound, will you?"

Porthos nodded grimly. When he brought down the folded fabric against her calf, Désirée convulsed. Suddenly her unconscious body arched upwards, struggling for air. She was in great pain.

"Shh", with one hand, Aramis caressed her forehead, trying to soothe her. With the other, he tugged at the sash beneath his belt. Once he had freed it, he shoved one end under Porthos's palm. Still, she shook, fighting every touch.

Aramis held on to her leg, firmly grasping her ankle. "Can you hold her down?"

Porthos nodded. He brought down his free arm against Désirée's shoulders. It took a lot of effort to keep her pinned to the ground. She was much stronger than she looked. With a sigh, he bent forward to put in more of his weight. "I'm sorry", he whispered. She had suffered enough. It hurt him to bruise her even more. The only response was the laboured rise and fall of her chest. Tiny whiffs of exhaled air prickled against his cheek, reminding him that he was doing all this to keep her alive.

Once Aramis had managed to tie the bandage around her calf, Désirée relaxed. From one moment to the next, she fell deathly still.

"Now, that's better", Aramis commented as he inspected his handiwork. For now, the wound was under control. Gently, he put down her leg, rolling her over onto one side.

Porthos looked up at him. "And what now?" he asked, not caring how anxious he sounded.

"The wound will require needlework very soon. Given her heart won't stop before we get there..." his friend replied. He looked up in search of Athos who had been hovering nearby, guarding their backs.

When he walked over to join them, Porthos did not fail to notice the unusual shadow of concern darkening his, otherwise serene, features. Until now, he had thought Désirée's fate would not touch him. But he had been wrong.

"How is she?" Athos crouched down, passing a brief glance over her motionless body.

"Poorly, I'm afraid", Aramis replied, "but if we go now, she might make it back to Paris."

Athos frowned. "It's more than three miles to go."

"Let me worry about that", a sharp note of warning crept into Aramis's voice. He would have no contradictions.

"Fine", Athos was in no mood to argue. "But D'Artagnan and I will press on to Le Havre. Matters there cannot wait much longer."

He was right. But it would not need all four of them to keep Désirée safe now. Another attack was somewhat unlikely. The enemy had spent his strength. And time was running out. Porthos stood. "Fine by me. I'll get the horses."

Quickly he left the small clearing behind and walked over to the tree line where D'Artagnan kept watch over the remaining horses. When he got there, the young man barely looked up.

"Will she live?" he asked, his voice no more than a whisper. For some reason, he felt guilty.

"Let's hope so", very lightly, Porthos touched his shoulder. "And even if not, it won't be your fault."

She had saved them both, before that bastard had stabbed her. If she died now, they would have to share the blame.

"I should have seen the attacker coming..." he muttered.

"Too late now", with a sigh, Porthos untethered his mount. They had no more time to loose now. Second thoughts had to wait.

D'Artagnan understood that. He untied Aramis's horse. When he put the bridle into Porthos's hand, he was still frowning. "I wished there was anything more I could do."

"Pray, perhaps. I'm sure she'll appreciate that." With one last, encouraging nod, he turned back towards the clearing. He knew how his friend felt. His own thoughts looked much the same as it was. But there was little he could do about it now; other than racing Désirée to safety.

When he returned to the others, she was still with them. Athos had scooped her off the ground and wrapped her into her cloak. Carefully he held on to her until Aramis had mounted. As he handed her up to him, his eyes travelled over to Porthos. He seemed to know how he felt.

"We'll return as fast as we can", he said. "And I have no wish to inform the captain about her death when I get back."

"Neither do I", Aramis replied decisively. Gently, he cradled Désirée's heavy head against his shoulder, urging the horse to move forward.

Porthos jumped into the saddle and followed close behind. He cast one last glance at Athos.

"If anything, I'll tell the captain", he stated. After all that had happened today, her life was his responsibility. Should anyone else try to harm her now, he would kill him on the spot.

xx

Riding back to Paris was a gamble. But Aramis had to risk it. Otherwise Mademoiselle might die. Right now, though, it seemed as if she would make it. He held her body against his chest as he rode. Her head had fallen against his shoulder and he felt her ragged breath against his skin. Despite the cloak warming her body, her skin was ice cold. Yet, by some miracle, she kept hanging on.

"How is she doing?" Porthos asked. His friend was riding next to him. He looked more than a little worried. Obviously, he felt for her.

"Hard to say", Aramis beheld her pallid face. "but it could be worse." Something in Porthos's deepening frown urged him to distract his comrade. "So, it's Désirée then, isn't it?"

"Obviously", Porthos retorted somewhat morosely. "And she started it."

Aramis smirked, "Well, sometimes even you get lucky..."

His friend snorted. "She'd be too much for you to handle."

"Hah. You know I like them spirited", his fingers played with a lock of her damp hair.

"And you know, she has killed a man today", Porthos observed dryly.

Aramis rolled his eyes. "Please, if some bastard stabbed me, I'd slay him, too."

Porthos set out to reply. But no words ever left his mouth. Instead his eyes zeroed in on Désirée, widening in shock.

Mere seconds later she started shuddering again. Quickly, Aramis tightened his grip. He did his best to hold her steady through the spasm. As his hand passed over her forehead, it came away wet. She had broken into cold sweats. It was a bad sign. Her body was crumbling under the strain. And Paris was another mile away. Quickly he turned to Porthos. "She is taking a turn for the worse. We must hurry."

His comrade nodded, struggling to swallow his trepidation. "Where do you want to go? The garrison?"

It was a good question. He had not thought about it before. But the garrison was not safe, not for her, not right now...

"No", he replied curtly. "Her enemies might be watching. We'll take her to the Bonaxieus' house" There was no more time to discuss it. Without waiting for a reply, Aramis spurred his mare into a gallop, clinging on to Désirée to keep her in the saddle. He whispered a silent prayer against her temple, willing her to stay alive.

xx

When he finally raced through the city gates, she was still alive. But her condition was worsening by the minute. He slowed the horse as he turned into a side alley. It led straight to the house. Once he had reached the end, he jumped off his mare. He had no time to worry whether it ran away. Porthos would catch it.

Aramis rushed for the door. Before he got to knock, it was flung open. He almost bumped into Constance.

"What happened?" she demanded. Distraught, she stared at the bundle in his arms.

"She has been stabbed", it was all he had to say. Despite herself, Constance asked no questions and stepped aside.

Aramis pushed past. In his arms, Désirée shook, fighting for air. He had to put her down. Right now. Running upstairs would take too long. Out of better options, he dashed towards the kitchen table. It would do. He swiped off the table cloth, laying her down. Momentarily, her breathing eased.

Relieved, Aramis touched her cheek. "There's a good girl."

"I just hope she won't bleed on the table", Constance said. She was standing next to him, frowning disapprovingly.

"I don't think she will", he replied evenly as he unwrapped the cloak. "But her wound must be tended. I will need hot water, clean linen and some brandy, if you have it."

"Of course..." for an instant, her eyes seemed glued to the younger woman's motionless shape, lying slumped against the tabletop. But then she faced away, rushing to fetch the supplies.

The moment she left, Porthos burst into the room. Agitated, he gazed at Désirée. "Is she...?"

"Don't worry, she's still with us", in passing Aramis put a hand on his shoulder. "Would you mind undoing her corset?"

Porthos frowned. "Isn't that your department?"

"Perhaps", with a fleeting grin, Aramis slipped the folded cloak under her head. "But I'm afraid she'll kill me if she finds out..."

"Right", with a sigh of exasperation, Porthos slipped an arm around Désirée's shoulders. Very carefully he sat her up, opening the half-unlaced strings at the back. As he moved her, the chemise shifted around her shoulders. For a brief moment, it slipped, revealing the edges of a strange, reddish mark. It gave Porthos pause. "What the..." With sudden alarm, he turned to Aramis.

"What is it?" his friend spun around. He took her body from Porthos's arms. With a dark suspicion on his mind, he pushed down the shift. The sight of her bare back made the air catch in his throat. "Good god..." There were scars, everywhere. A criss-cross of long, red gashes ran the length of her spine like bloodied lace.

Next to him, Porthos's expression darkened. "Did someone whip her?" He sounded furious now.

"Flog her bloody more like", Aramis felt the same wrath. It was wrong to flay a young, beautiful woman like this. The scars would mark her for life. He wondered what she had done to deserve it.

That moment Constance returned. She was carrying bandages and a bottle of brandy. When she gazed over his shoulder, she nearly dropped her load. "So that is why she wanted no help getting dressed..." she muttered.

"It explains more than just that", Aramis tugged the chemise back into place.

Suddenly, Désirée stirred. Sharply, her nails dug into his wrist. She was coming to. Quickly, he disentangled her clenched hand, slipping the bodice over her head. Gingerly, he laid her back down. He had no wish to fight her for it, the second she woke.

xx

Waking felt like falling into a pool of blinding white mist. She could not see. Where was she? What had happened to her? Something brushed against her face The gentle touch hit her tender senses like a sharp blow. Instinctively, she lashed out. Her knuckles crashed into something soft. That very second, the haze lifted from her eyes.

Among a snowstorm of dancing white dots, she recognised Aramis hovering over her. He was clutching his cheek, great surprise written all over his features. When his hand came away, a few bright red droplets trickled down his skin. Horrified, Désirée gasped. She had hit him, drawing blood.

"Hello", he said. There was no anger in his voice, only serenity. He even smiled. Violence seemed to please him.

"I...", Désirée whispered. She felt deeply ashamed.

"Don't worry about it", for a split second, he pressed her hand. Then he let go. Perhaps he was afraid to catch another hit for it.

She winced. A sudden flash of pain made her feel faint. Something was wrong with her leg. It was stiff, unresponsive. When she tried to raise it, another wave of agony knocked the air from her lungs. "What happened?" she asked, struggling to suppress a groan.

"You were stabbed." Almost calmly, Aramis reached for the laces of her skirt.

"Oh." Somehow, the news failed to alarm her. There was only a distant feeling of worry. "Will I keep the leg?"

Her callous reaction surprised him visibly. With great care, he pulled down her skirts. After long seconds of silence, he replied. When he did, his gaze dwelt on her right calf thoughtfully.

"You will. But the cut is deep", Aramis said. He sounded strangely apologetic. "It needs cleaning and a fair bit of needlework. Of course, I will be careful, but it will hurt."

"I'm no stranger to pain", Désirée murmured. Almost at once, the thought brought on dark memories. She closed her eyes, pushing them away. When her eyelids fluttered open again, Porthos was stroking her hand.

Surprised she stared at him. He had been here all the time, silent and brooding, quiet enough for her to overlook his presence."There is brandy, to take the edge off things", he offered.

Désirée groaned. She knew her body. It was not an option. "Do you want me to be sick all over you?"

"It was just an offer", he shrugged."Alternatively, I could always punch you."

She smiled faintly. "Would you be willing to live down the retaliation?"

"That's what I ask them, every time they knock me out", Porthos snorted.

"He doesn't", Aramis commented with a brief smirk. Gingerly, he plucked at the bandage. When it came away, her blood reddened his hands. Suddenly he paused, beholding her wound for a long moment.

Désirée frowned at him. It was not like him to falter. And it was not the first time. Since she had woken, he had been strangely hesitant and overly cautious. The same held true for Porthos. He seemed unusually subdued. What was wrong with them? Her injury could not be the only reason for their sudden reservation.

Slowly she averted her gaze from the bleeding wound. It was then she beheld Madame Bonacieux, carrying a large water bowl. The pity in the other woman's eyes made her sick. She did not want any of it. It smarted more than the gash itself...

"Ready?" Aramis asked, snapping her out of her thoughts.

Absently, Désirée nodded. At once, an unforeseen pang of fear began to gnaw at her. She banned it to the furthest recess of her racing mind. Pain would not frighten her. Not anymore.

When Aramis loosened the makeshift tourniquet around her thigh, a fiery torrent of fresh blood rushed into her cold, numb calf. It burned like hellfire. But she would not scream. She grasped Porthos's hand. Her nails dug sharply into the soft flesh of his palm. "He's qualified, right?" she brought out through gritted teeth, trying to sound unfazed.

Porthos saw right through her façade, but played along regardless. "Don't worry, he's the best seamstress in town." Gently, he unclenched her fingers, slipping her hand between both of his. It helped.

From the corner of her eye she saw Aramis douse a wet cloth with brandy. Once he pressed it against the open wound, a violent shudder gripped her leg. Her foot kicked out. It missed his face by mere inches.

"Whoa", she felt his grasp around her ankle. Firmly, he pinned it down against the table. "I had no idea how much you hated me." He made another attempt to clean the cut. This time she could not get away.

Désirée bit her lip. A fresh surge of pain pierced through her calf like a red-hot dagger. It was too much to bear. Quickly, she buried her face in the folds of Porthos's shirt, drowning out her shrieks.

He stooped to hold her against his body, whispering soothingly into her sweat-matted hair. "You should strike him more often. He enjoys that."

She wanted to laugh, but the agony knocked the air from her lungs. Ever more tightly, she clung on to Porthos, praying for the violent burning to end. Her mind began to drift. Cold and dark memories flooded in. She tried to fight them off, but they kept coming. And with them, came even more pain.

Her body trembled as it fought against the agony. But it was too weak. In a flash, her senses failed her. Like a landslide, consciousness slipped her grip. After one final explosion of pain, her mind plunged into an abyss of merciful blackness.

xx

D'Artagnan was brooding. It was more than obvious. Athos reined in beside him. He wondered whether hurt pride, or guilt, had soured the young man's mood. It hardly mattered, as long as his discomfort did not interfere with their mission.

"You should not think too much of it", he observed matter-of-factly.

"Easy for you to say", D'Artagnan retorted with a deepening scowl. "She didn't take a blow meant for you."

Athos groaned. What had happened could never be undone. "She should not have been involved in the first place. If she dies, we will all be held responsible."

"Perhaps it would be for the best if she did", his comrade muttered darkly. "She is making a nuisance of herself."

Athos shot him a warning glare. "Be careful what you wish for."

"I..." D'Artagnan flushed as he realized what he had just proposed. "Forgive me. Even I don't hate her that much. But..."

"But what?" he frowned at the young man. He was just forgetting himself.

Shamefaced, D'Artagnan gazed at his hands. "I wish she would stop beguiling everyone not to hate her. Now she has even wrapped you around her dainty little finger."

Clearly, his misplaced feelings of remorse were blinding him. Matters were far more complicated than he could fathom.

"She has not", Athos stated. Treville had been the one changing his opinion. Yesterday night, he had told him about the events leading to her father's exile. Back then the captain had risked his life to protect her from Richelieu's wiles. Now it was up to them to keep her safe. If they relinquished her now, a lot more than only her life would be forfeit. "What she needs is our protection, and not our contempt."

D'Artagnan creased his brow. "But that doesn't mean she can just..." he began but never finished. Something had alerted him. He halted his mount, listening closely. Slowly he walked the horse in a circle, scanning the copse of trees around them.

Were they being followed? Athos strained his own ears to pick up any suspicious noises. But there was nothing, not even the rustle of a stray leaf. It was too quiet.

After a moment, D'Artagnan shook his head. "I thought I heard something."

He urged his horse back into motion. His senses were sharp; but perhaps it had really been nothing. Still, they had to stay on their guard.

"We better get off the road soon", Athos replied. He spurred ahead. Their destination was not far now. But, the faster they reached it, the better. Although Mademoiselle was not here with them anymore, another attack seemed only a matter of time.

xx


	7. Horrors and Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Aramis learns Désirée's best-kept secret, Athos and D'Artagnan encounter more questions, and receive a message from a mysterious stranger.

7\. Horrors and Tears

"Madame de Courtenay will be with you in a moment", with a minute bow the maid scurried away to fetch her mistress.

She left them behind in the deserted entrance hall of the small chateau. Once she had vanished upstairs, Athos scanned the vast, marble-tiled space. Its grandeur surprised him. Slowly he paced the length of it, glancing into every direction. His nerves were on edge, even though an ambush was more than unlikely to happen here. Yet the hall had a labyrinthine character, with many obscured corners. Someone might still lurk in the shadows, watching...

D'Artagnan seemed a little more at ease since they had walked inside. But he was no less watchful. From one of the large windows, he took in the blossoming front garden.

"Somebody certainly married into good fortune", he observed. His gaze travelled upwards to admire the stucco ornaments on the painted ceiling.

Athos nodded. The Blaise family had never been poor, but the late captain's sister had married well above her station. But it was not entirely surprising. "I remember the captain's mother being of noble birth, but impoverished", he replied, "but sometimes, titles count more than fortune."

"You're the expert", his comrade stated while examining the backside of the stairs for possible hiding places.

Suddenly there was movement in the upper hallway. A few moments later, Captain Blaise's sister appeared on top of the stairs. She did not seem very pleased to see them. Quickly D'Artagnan rejoined Athos in the middle of the hall. Seeing him peer into corners would definitely not improve her attitude.

When she moved towards them, Athos saw that she was at least ten years younger than her late brother, and quite beautiful. A flowing mass of ginger curls billowed around her heart-shaped face as she walked down the stairs. It formed a stark contrast against her pale, ivory skin and round corn-blue eyes.

"Madame de Courtenay", he offered her a polite bow. Next to him, D'Artagnan did the same. He seemed a little smitten by her. But she was unlikely to take to his sympathy. The news they brought were far too grave for it.

And she sensed it. Worriedly, her glance wandered between them. "I have not received a visit from the Musketeers in a very long time." Abruptly, she stopped in front of them. There was a frown forming on her smooth forehead. "Is there anything amiss?" she ventured after a moment of awkward silence.

Athos saw no point in delaying the inevitable. "I am very sorry, Madame, but we have bad news concerning your brother."

His words were greeted by a startled gasp. "Alexandre... is he...", she paled, struggling for every word that crossed her lips. After a moment, the horrible truth dawned on her, "Is he dead?"

"I am afraid so", he replied, trying to look sympathetic. But he was also surprised. Blaise had not died far from here. Yet nobody had shared the fact with his immediate family. Or simply not with her...

By the way she was shaking now, it was almost understandable no one had shared the news before today. She looked about to faint. Helplessly, her hand groped for support, finding only empty air.

He was about to reach out and support her, but D'Artagnan was quicker. Carefully he took her arm, resting it across his shoulder. "Perhaps you should sit down."

Vaguely, she nodded, pointing into the general direction of the salon with a tremulous finger.

Athos walked alongside them, making sure she would not slip. Informing relatives of a death was never easy. But sometimes it was outright painstaking. In his pocket he found the medallion Mademoiselle de Sauveterre had given him. Perhaps it would help ease matters.

When Madame de Courtenay had settled down on a sofa in the salon, he crouched in front of her. Gently he pressed the locket into her palm. "Your brother wanted you to have this."

Perplexed, she turned it over in her hand. Cautiously she fingered the catch. "So he did. But how did you...?" she faltered, taking a moment to rephrase the question. "How did he die?"

Athos exchanged a glance with D'Artagnan. Mutely they agreed that he would do the talking. "He saved a young woman from a band of thugs and took a deadly shot." It was all he would say. Judging from her previous reaction, details were more than unhelpful.

Madame's lip trembled. With her knuckle she wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. "So it was for a good cause?" she mused, seeking consolation in the fact. "This woman... is she well?"

"She is alive and under our protection", at least Athos hoped she still was. "Before his death, the captain asked her to return the pendant to you, to exonerate her."

Slowly, she nodded. "It is very valuable to us. If Alexandre gave it to her, he trusted her."

D'Artagnan raised a brow but said nothing. He was still unconvinced. But for Athos, the matter was settled. Mademoiselle de Sauveterre was innocent, at least for the moment.

"Thank you, Madame", he bowed his head. "Again, we can only express our sincerest condolences. Captain Blaise was a good man and an outstanding soldier. He will be sorely missed."

Unexpectedly, she pressed his hand. "I appreciate your coming here. The locket's return means a lot to me."

Athos nodded, "It was our duty, Madame. Yet there are other duties we must fulfill, to fully clear up the circumstances of the attack. Other lives may still depend on it..."

"I am sure they do", she sighed heavily, still wiping at her tears. "And it would hurt me to know that he died in vain..."

D'Artagnan had seen enough of all the silent weeping. Uninvited, he sat down next to her. He produced his handkerchief and pressed it into her hand. "Will you be all right?"

Vaguely, she nodded. "My husband will return soon."

"If you want to, we can keep you informed about the investigation..." he suggested.

"No", she waved his offer away. "I am sure you will do the utmost to settle matters. I have taken up too much of your time already."

Her reaction was abrupt. It did not fit in with her previous demeanour. Inwardly, Athos frowned. Perhaps it was time to leave her alone... "In that case, we shall take our leave now. Thank you for receiving us, Madame."

"Thank you for coming", she replied quietly.

Athos nodded at her. Inconspicuously, he motioned for D'Artagnan to follow him outside. Warily, the young man's gaze travelled about the room. Somehow he managed to smile at Madame on the way out, but he, too, seemed rather perplexed now.

Once the maid had shown them out the front door, Athos turned to speak to him in a low voice. "What's your impression?"

"Not sure", his young friend shrugged. "But, somehow, I doubt she'll break down crying, now that we are gone."

He was right. What they had just witnessed had not quite looked like suppressed grief. Something else had been on her mind. But what? Athos had no answer.

Sudden hoofbeats interrupted his thoughts. A cloaked man on a bay horse sped through the gate. He slowed down as he rode past, staring at them peevishly. Yet he did not stop or speak to them.

"The husband?" D'Artagnan asked, gazing after the newcomer.

"I would say so. Come on." He saw no need to trouble the man. It was obvious he did not welcome their presence any more than his lady wife. With a quick gaze at the sky, Athos stepped up to his mount. Dusk was falling and they had to get going, unless they wanted to spend the night on the road.

With a reluctant nod, D'Artagnan got into the saddle. As he steered his mount through the gate, he cast another thoughtful look at the chateau. Quite obviously, their visit was bound to linger on his mind.

xx

Désirée was unconscious again. Porthos felt the weight of her motionless body in his arms. Her shallow breathing was barely audible. But he felt it warmly against his skin. Gingerly he laid her back down on the kitchen table, running his fingers through her sweat-soaked hair. He wondered if she would punch him for it, if she woke now. But she did not even stir.

At the other end of the table, Aramis was finishing off his needlework. "As good as new", he stated with a hint of contentment.

"I'm sure she'll appreciate it, once she comes back around", Porthos said.

Aramis smiled a little. Now that her life was no longer in immediate danger, he was more at ease again. "Passing yourself out is an art of its own."

"As is not making a sound", Constance chimed in. For a moment, Porthos had forgotten she was still here. But she had stuck around, washing out the blood-soaked linens as though it was nothing unusual.

She was wrong though. Désirée had not been silent. He had felt her agonized shrieks against his chest. But that was a secret best kept between them. So he shrugged. "She's just that special."

"And a much easier patient than you", Aramis added as he wrapped a fresh bandage around Désirée's leg.

It seemed ironic he would say so while the cut she had given him still adorned his cheek like a streak of bright red paint. Porthos snorted, "When have I ever struck you?"

"You have no idea, my friend", Aramis retorted. "Why else do we have to knock you out every time?"

"Funny", carefully, Porthos lifted Désirée off the table. "So, what do we do with her now?"

"She can have the downstairs bedroom, while my husband is away." Constance offered as she dropped the bunch of wet fabric back into the washing basin. By now, the water in it had a rusty red tint.

"Thank you", Aramis tugged Désirée's shift back into place. "D'Artagnan will be glad he does not have to share his room with her."

Constance frowned. "That bad, is it?"

Porthos sighed. Thinking of D'Artagnan's constant unease around her was not pleasant at all. It had only gotten worse after the injury. "They tick each other off. Not to mention that she saved his life today."

"He seems to need that sometimes", Constance sounded unsurprised. She walked ahead, holding the door for him.

With great care, Porthos put Désirée down on the bed. He shook out the sheet, tucking her in. Without noticing, he caressed the pale skin of her cheek. All at once, she seemed so incredibly fragile.

Aramis was hovering by the door. "Will you two be all right?" he asked.

The question was needless. "Of course", Porthos replied. "You go ahead and tell Treville what happened. And check if the others are back yet."

"Will do", Aramis nodded. "But I doubt they will be."

He was probably right. Too much had happened for it. When his friend was out of sight, he planted a tentative kiss on Désirée's forehead, hoping things would look up for her now.

xx

"D'Artagnan!" in a swift motion Athos turned his horse around, calling to his comrade. They were being followed.

The hints were subtle, but unmistakable: Too much rustle in the foliage, telltale shadows flitting through the trees, whenever he slowed down... careless mistakes.

Athos steered his stallion off the road. Either the stalkers wanted to be seen, or the falling dusk had made them complacent. It was strange they had found them here at all. Roads washed out by rain and fallen trees had forced them to take several detours. Their shadows had to be very adamant if they had trailed them all this way.

D'Artagnan pulled up next to him. "How many?" he asked quietly, glancing over his shoulder.

"Not more than two", Athos replied, "come on." Slowly he rode into the trees. It was time to end this game.

He tried to remember where he had last spotted them. As he navigated the trees, he listened. At once, the crack of dry underbrush gave him pause. It came from somewhere close behind. Athos nodded at D'Artagnan. They moved forward, fanning out. It was easier to cut off the stalkers' way from either side, further down the road.

When they emerged from the gloom, back into the fading daylight, a lone rider cantered along the path. He wore a dark, hooded cloak which seemed to blend with the horse's sleek, blue-black coat. Fearlessly, their former shadow sped closer, making no move to evade them.

"Stop", Athos aimed his pistol. Behind him, D'Artagnan blocked the road with the broadside of his mount.

At last, the mysterious rider halted, less than a yard away. "I mean you no harm."

A woman. Surprised, Athos lowered his weapon. But he was still ready to shoot her if he had to. "Who are you?"

"Not your enemy", she shook off her hood, revealing a mass of whitish blond curls. He could see her face now. It was round and serene. But it was not young anymore. Even though she seemed to have aged well, she was at least forty.

"I'm sorry, Madame, but that's not good enough", he kept a firm grip of his pistol.

"It's hard to believe when you trail us like that", D'Artagnan added with a suspicious glare.

"My name is Camille Dufort", very slowly, she moved closer, spreading her hands to show that she was unarmed. "And there was no other way."

"There always is", Athos stated deadpan.

Madame Dufort sighed. "Not in the current situation. If you understand what I mean."

He had an idea indeed. As it was, the possibilities were limited. "I might, if you told me what you seek, Madame."

"I have a message, for someone we both know. I am surprised she is not with you", she replied. A frown of great concern appeared on her forehead. "Is she dead?"

"Perhaps, perhaps not. But we might be able to pass it on." This was the most gregarious offer Athos would extend to her.

But she declined. "I can only tell her in person. Everything else is too risky."

"We cannot help you then", he responded with an air of finality.

"Oh, you can", she observed. "Ask her if she wants to hear it. When she does, I can come and find you in Paris."

Now it was D'Artagnan who had objections: "But what if you collaborate with her father's enemies?"

"Her father's enemies?" there was a long pause, followed by a derisive snort. "Do you really believe it was them who attacked you?"

Piqued, D'Artagnan challenged her. "Who was it then?"

"I am not at liberty to tell you. But rest assured that they are my enemies as well", she said darkly, hatred creeping into her voice.

Strangely, Athos believed her. "We will see what we can do. But there will be no guarantees", he told her with a curt nod.

The offer contented her. "You have my thanks, Monsieur." Without further ado, she pulled the cowl back over her head and turned her horse around. "I will be in touch."

As she galloped away into the quickly-falling darkness, D'Artagnan gave Athos an exaspearated look. The mystery surrounding Désirée de Sauveterre was ever growing. And his friend was fed up with it.

xx

When Aramis walked back into the bedroom, he did his best to be silent. He did not want to disturb anything.

Still, the moment he crossed the threshold, Porthos looked around, bemused to see him sneak. Clearly, there was nothing to disturb. Désirée was not even conscious.

"Any changes?" he asked quietly.

Porthos shook his head. He was cradling Désirée's motionless hand between his. "Are the others back yet?"

"Not yet", Aramis replied. "And it's about time you get some rest." Night had already fallen and he had sat with her all day now.

His friend knew that as well. Yet he looked at him with an air of grudging hesitation. "I'm not sure I can leave you two alone."

"We will survive", he replied with a little smirk.

Porthos frowned. But at last, he got to his feet. "Should she beat you bloody again, don't say I didn't warn you."

"Please. I learned my lesson the last time around." Aramis rolled his eyes. He was not going to provoke her temper in any way. Not again.

"Have fun then", Porthos winked at him meaningfully and made for the door.

"I'm sure we will", Aramis muttered. Slowly he walked over to the bed.

Désirée was resting at ease. But somehow, she looked strained. He sat down on the chair Porthos had just vacated, glancing at her for a long moment. It was a little miracle she should be so calm when, a few hours ago, she had been near death. "I will let you know when she asks for you..." he promised, without looking up. But Porthos had already left.

"It is only you and me then, Mademoiselle", he went on softly.

But Désirée kept her silence. She did not even stir. Suffering without making a sound seemed to be her special talent. He did not want to know the horrid events that had inspired it.

Very lightly, Aramis touched her cheek. It felt warm and damp with sweat. She was running a slight fever. But it was no cause to worry. He had made sure the wound was clean, much as he had tormented her for it.

When he let go, he noticed that she was clutching a piece of black cloth in her fist. When he plucked at it, he saw it was Porthos's scarf. He wondered how she had gotten a hold of it.

Still bemused by the matter, Aramis set about inspecting the wound. Gingerly, he moved the sheets and her shift out of the way. He found the bandaged leg lying sideway, at a crooked angle. Its posture looked unnatural and painful. As he lifted her calf, he saw small, brown specks of dried blood on the linen. The dressings needed changing.

As he looked around the room, he found a small supply of fresh cloth strips, hung over the bed's bottom end. Constance had been very attentive. They all owed her much gratitude.

He reached for the knot in her old bandages, to untie them. Before he even touched it, his fingers froze in midair. He had felt a ripple of movement. Mere seconds later, a jolt shook Désirée's body, so violently, it knocked the leg from his grip.

Startled, he looked up. The very instant he did, her fiery eyes fluttered open. They were empty and unfocussed. With a gasp she shot bolt upright. Unsteadily, her confused gaze darted about the room. Alarmed, he rushed forward. But she did not see him; not even when he stood right next to her.

"Easy." Carefully he gripped her shoulders. He felt her jump under his touch. Wide-eyed, she stared at him. A ragged stream of words left her mouth. He did not understand them. They sounded disjointed and foreign.

She was trembling now. The sudden exertion had done for her. Aramis tightened his hold. Soothingly, he caressed her hair. "Go back to sleep."

Instead, she fought him. Her muscles quivered, refusing to let off the tension. But, not a second later, she collapsed from exhaustion. Moaning, she fell forward, right into his arms.

"There's a good girl", Aramis whispered as he laid her back down. For long minutes, he kept a close eye on her. Except for the slow rise and fall of her chest, she lay completely still again. He was hopeful she would sleep through the worst of the pain now.

But then she stirred again. As she rolled over to face him, every hope of her staying asleep blew away. She was lucid this time. When her eyes found him, he saw they were glassy and wet with tears. He wondered whether they were tears of hurt.

"How are you feeling?" Aramis inquired guardedly. For some reason, he felt apprehensive about the answer.

Yet, Désirée's only reply was a weak sigh. After a long silence, she finally found her voice "Did I just...?" she asked in a breathless whisper.

"Yell at me in Chinese?" Aramis offered, with a well-meant half-smile. "Yes, I believe so."

Désirée cursed. "My apologies", she murmured.

"There's no need", he picked up the jug on the nightstand, pouring water into a small earthenware cup. "Would you like a drink?"

"Please", she nodded, attempting to rouse herself from the sheets. But she hardly managed to pull herself upright now. When she finally held out her hand, it was shaking badly.

"Allow me", Aramis sat down on the bed's edge. Cautiously, he wrapped one arm around her back. Then he put the cup against her lip, praying she would drink, and not slam it into his face, purely out of reflex.

But she behaved herself. When she was finished, the shadow of a grateful smile flitted across her pallid face. It took her a long while before she finally mustered the strength to speak again. "Will I need a priest?"

Surprised Aramis raised his brows. She had to feel hellish to even think that it was time for her last rites. "I don't think so", he passed a palm over her forehead. It felt slightly hotter than her cheek. "It's only a little fever. It will pass."

"Lovely", Désirée winced, shifting uncomfortably.

"Does your leg hurt badly?" he asked with a pang of concern.

Her reply sounded unmistakably bitter. "I will live."

"So you will", Aramis sighed. Thoughtfully, his fingers nestled into the fabric at the back of her chemise. He did not need much fantasy to imagine the searing agony of a flayed back. Compared to it, the aches of a knife wound were nothing. Even though she was still young, she had endured greater suffering before...

When she realized what he was doing, she spun around. He expected to see anger or surprise on her face, but there was only deadpan blankness. She knew they had found the scars.

"Will you tell me what happened?" he inquired very gently.

It was still the wrong question. The glare it earned him was more than toxic. Wordlessly, she shrugged off his arm. Without its support, she tumbled backwards. When her back hit the sheets, she gasped softly.

Aramis looked at her from where he sat, making sure she had not injured herself in the fall. Once she felt his gaze, she faced away, silently staring into emptiness.

Aramis cursed himself for listening to the voice of curiosity. It had been blunt, and thoughtless, to overlook her frailty. Of course, she would not welcome his questions in such a state.

He let the silence linger. If it lasted long enough, she might cave in and tell him. If not, he would let her keep the secret. In her condition, only a brute would force her.

Tentatively, he rested his palm against her arm. "Forgive me", he said, "I was not thinking."

There was no response, not even a glance, or a sigh. Had she passed out again?

Aramis peered over her shoulder. She was still conscious, and still staring at the wall. Despite the candlelight, he saw that her face was paler than before. Her lips were quivering and the half-formed tears he had spotted earlier were now running down her face in narrow, glistening rivulets.

"I did not mean to make you cry", he stated. "I only wanted to help."

This time, Désirée reacted. She was still facing the wall, but he made out a minute shake of her head. Had she accepted his apology, or did she want him to stop talking?

The second she stirred, her sobbing worsened. Now Aramis knew, it was the pain, and her needless struggle to conceal it from him. He had to snap her out of this folly. It was making matters worse.

"Désirée", more firmly now, his fingers held on to her arm. "Look at me. Please."

After another endless moment, she moved. Ponderously, she turned back around. When Aramis beheld her face, it was full of fear.

What was frightening her so? Was it the thought of breaking her secret to him? Did she believe he would hate her for whatever she had done?

"There is no need to be afraid." He smiled at her mildly, reaching for a scrap of linen. Taking his time, he moistened it with water from the jug and began washing the sweat and tears off her face. "And there is no shame in feeling pain either. That wound is more than a little scratch. I'd be worried if it didn't hurt."

His words changed the look on Désirée's face. Fear turned into a strange, icy callousness. Aramis dreaded that he had said the wrong thing again. But, this time, he had not.

"Empta dolore experientia docet", she responded, almost soundlessly. Again, it was not French. But now, he understood her words: When experience is bought with pain, it teaches. He had not used his Latin in years, yet it was still sound enough.

"I have been taught by pain before", she went on, still in Latin. Her fluency did not surprise him. She had grown up among priests after all.

"Do you mean the flogging?" he asked cautiousy, wondering what lesson such an ordeal could possibly teach her. If anything, she had learned to hate. "What happened to you?"

Désirée sighed. "A hundred strokes of the stick." There was no hatred in her words. They were almost light-hearted and unimpressed, as though she was recounting a trivial, everyday event.

But Aramis refused to believe she was over it. Not long ago, someone had beaten her bloody with a stick. It was a humiliation, not easily forgotten.

"Why?" he inquired, now slipping into the clerical tongue himself.

Désirée did not answer. Instead, she tried to sit up. Fighting her weakness, she struggled to haul her weakened body upright. It worked no better than before. Gently, Aramis wrapped his arms around her, so she would not keel back over.

Once she sat up, Désirée's head fell heavily against his shoulder. If Porthos had been here, he might have mistaken their awkward entanglement for an embrace. But it was not. While Désirée welcomed the closeness, she still seemed tense and ill at ease.

For a long while, she remained silent, obviously contemplating her reply to his question. At last, she looked back up into his face. Her expression was stony and unreadable.

"An imaginary crime", she whispered, in a voice stained by fresh tears. "Dishonouring my father."

Aramis raised a brow. She seemed incapable of serious honour crimes. It sounded as though someone had held a massive grudge against her instead. "What did you do to deserve it?"

"I told the truth", she stated, lowering her eyes again. "Let others know he was my father. It was his dying wish... ", her lip quivered.

It was easy to imagine the rest of the story. Without her father's protection, she had been easy game for his brethren. "So the Jesuits accused you and had you whipped?"

"No", Désirée shook her head. "They saved me."

It sounded like a sick joke. Yet she was dead serious.

"How would they save you?" Thoughtfully, Aramis played with a strand of her hair that had brushed against his cheek as she moved.

"They saved me from one man's folly", she replied, full of exasperation. "He did not know the penalty for filial dishonour ... It's death."

"I hope they punished him", he muttered darkly.

Désirée's eyes widened, until she was flat out staring at him. "Did they punish my father's transgressions?"

"I guess not." From what Aramis knew, her father's exile had been the cardinal's doing alone. "Still, you were mistreated cruelly, for nothing", he observed.

Désirée laughed. It was a dry laugh, laboured and dripping with irony. "Believe me, the queue in front of the confessional was long that day", she was speaking French again. "The Fathers did not hate me. Except for the one..."

"Who is he?", Aramis inquired. Her equanimity surprised him. It also infuriated him. She had not deserved such a hailstorm of injustice.

"Father Jerome. An zealous idiot", she sighed. "And his idiocy did not stop there..."

"What more did he do?" he questioned flatly.

He felt the urge to hurt this man. One who had knowingly destroyed the future of an honourable young woman deserved no mercy.

"He wrote a letter, saying I committed a serious crime..." her voice trailed off into silence. "If it falls into the cardinal's hands..."

She was lost. The horror of the thought was clear in her unsteady eyes. Aramis held on tighter, comforting her. "Even if it does, he will not harm you. We will see to that."

Désirée's body shifted uneasily. "You can't. He will find a way." With a shudder, she looked away."He... he frightens me."

"Easily done", Aramis touched her face, his fingers stumbling into even more fresh tears. "If you want, I can tell the captain what happened."

She nodded. Not two seconds later, she started sobbing again, far worse than before.

"Shh", he caressed the back of her head. The fright and excitement were taking their toll. Aramis chid himself. He had just unearthed horrors way beyond his expectations. And reliving them had hurt Désirée even more.

She tried to push him away now; but she was too weak. He loosened his grip. Her body felt limp in his arms. Very nearly, she slipped his grasp.

"There", with great care, he eased her against the sheets at last. "Sleep now. It has been a long day."

"No kidding", slowly, Désirée rolled herself into the sheets.

Yet, not an instant later, she peered back at him from under heavy eyelids. "Aramis..."

"Yes?" he offered her a smile. Yet, inwardly, he sighed. She did not seem keen on resting tonight.

"Don't tell anyone I cried." She made it sound like a sin, even though she had every reason to be distraught. But he understood. After all she had suffered, hiding her feelings was a logical choice.

Gingerly, Aramis smoothed down her shift. "I won't." Yet he had an inkling that Porthos already knew. The tell-tale tear stains on his friend's shirt had been unmistakable.

Désirée relaxed visibly now. "Thanks."

"I hope you can go to sleep now", he replied, trying to sound encouraging.

But she merely groaned. "Perhaps, if you stop telling me to." At the same time, she suppressed a yawn. Not a minute later, sleep had finally claimed her.

With a relieved sigh, Aramis rose from Désirée's bedside. At long last, he had time to redress the wound. Unless, another gruesome tale got in his way. But he doubted it.

Right now, there was nothing worse than the story he had just heard. The others, and especially Treville, would hate to learn about it. It meant even more trouble. And they had more than enough woes already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of things have happened in this chapter and this time, D'Artagnan is the one who has stayed on top of it all the best. As opposed to Désirée at this point, I really like him. And I believe she will come around to cherish him as well. ;)  
> Now that you have had a slightly different look at her, you can perhaps understand the reasons for her earlier defensiveness a little better, too. ;)


	8. Daring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As she recovers, Désirée hatches a plan to enlist a powerful ally against the cardinal. But meeting him is not without danger...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes a slightly longer, more dialogue-heavy chapter. But I will recompense you with more action next time around. I hope you will still enjoy this one all the same. x =)

8\. Daring

"What are you doing?" Constance was so startled she nearly dropped the breakfast she was carrying. Full of disbelief, she gawped at the young woman who was rising out of bed as though nothing was amiss.

Only three days had passed since her injury. She had been feverish and weak for most of this time, leaving everyone worried. Aramis and Porthos had passed in and out of her room to ensure she would not take a turn for the worse. If they were here now, she would never even consider the idiocy she was about to commit.

"You can't get up", Constance said, feeling powerless. "You will only hurt yourself."

The young lady said nothing. She completely ignored her well-meant concern. The way she glared at her gave Constance the chills. Having her at the house felt like harbouring a very haunting ghost. Arguing with her was a frightening prospect. But she gave it one last try. "Why can't you just stay put until you feel better?"

She paused to behold her for a long moment. Slowly, the ice in her stare melted, to be replaced with very odd smile. It was sad and pitying at the same time. "It is what I was taught in China. Rest slows recovery."

"That sounds wrong", Constance frowned, "and cruel."

Her reaction provoked a quiet chuckle. "Well, if you find that cruel, you have no idea about China."

"But does it not hurt you to walk?" she inquired with caution, finally remembering to set down the plate of bread and the cup of milk still in her hand.

Her guest merely shrugged, "Tell that to the poor girls whose feet were broken to make them more marriageable."

"Wait, what?" Constance's jaw dropped slightly. She had never heard of such a horrid custom before.

"China." The young woman said nothing more as she finally swung her feet out of bed. In one fluid motion she rose to her feet. And, instead of falling, she actually walked. Her steps were slow, yet they appeared perfectly normal.

Constance was stumped. "How do you...?"

"Lots of practice", unfazed, she reached for a piece of baguette. With her other hand, she fished a black piece of cloth from among the sheets. With eyes half-closed, she eyed it. "May I borrow a needle and some thread?"

"I... of course", still not quite herself again, Constance made for the stairs. Halfway up the steep flight, she nearly crashed into D'Artagnan.

Surprised, he looked her up and down. "Should she be up?" he asked, bobbing his head towards Désirée ambling towards the kitchen downstairs.

"No", she sighed. "Could you talk to her?"

"She would not listen to me", he replied, sounding apologetic.

It was not as though he had ever gone near her since she was staying at the house. From what Constance had heard, their relationship was more than strained at the moment.

"Fine. It was only a thought", she gave him a brief smile and walked on. The idea of their visitor skulking about in her shift quickened her steps. She had to get her a shawl. Despite her reckless behaviour, it seemed unfair to let her freeze.

xx

Athos was apprehensive of the task ahead. Treville had asked him to inform Mademoiselle de Sauveterre about everything that had passed since her injury.

There was no telling how she would react. And, even though he had long learned to respect the young woman, her impulsivity was hard to foresee. And he had little tolerance for it. But, as so often, he had to do his duty.

After allowing himself one final sigh of exasperation, he entered the Bonacieuxs' house. In the hall, D'Artagnan passed him. For a moment, his friend stopped.

"I'm glad it's you, not me", he commented, sounding relieved.

Of course he would be. Athos groaned. "It's me this time. But it does not mean you can go on avoiding her."

"I was not going to", he muttered. As he moved on, he patted Athos's shoulder. "Good luck."

Athos was not sure how much of it he would need. Then he spotted Constance emerging from the kitchen, a look of surrender on her face. It dawned on him that his mission required more than a bit of it.

"Madame Bonacieux", he greeted her, taking off his hat.

Absently, she nodded at him. "I assume you are here to see Mademoiselle?"

"I am", he replied, causing a grateful smile to appear on Constance's face. "Is she awake?"

"Awake yes. I am not so sure of her sanity though", Constance rolled her eyes, nodding into the direction she had just come from. By the looks of it, Mademoiselle had kept her busy. "I asked her to stay put, but..."

She would not listen. Athos had expected no less. "Don't worry about it", he told her evenly. As he walked past, he saw Mademoiselle sitting at the kitchen table. She only wore her shift and a thin shawl draped around her slender shoulders. A dark piece of cloth in her lap had her full attention. As Athos closed in, he realized that she was darning it. But he got no chance to hang back and watch her needlework, in wait of the right moment.

At once she looked up, as though she had sensed his presence. With surprising speed, she stood up. She made for the door, taking slow, measured steps. Holding on to the door frame, she beheld him. "It seems I have a gentleman caller", she observed unemotionally. Yet he did not miss the trace of bitterness in her voice. She hated to be cooped up inside.

When she moved closer, Athos wondered how she kept herself upright. Her leg injury had been no trifle.

But suddenly she misstepped. Wide-eyed, she stumbled forward. Just before she fell, Athos caught her.

When he ushered her towards the bench by the fireplace, the young woman was glowering.

"It seems sewing in bed is not exciting enough for you", he commented as he sat down next to her.

His words provoked a snappish reply. "Rest is a pointless concept." She paused to give him an intense, sidelong glance. "But you have not come to lecture me."

"No", Athos answered truthfully. "We have to talk."

Mademoiselle was startled. He saw it in the minute flinch that followed his revelation.

"You must be angry with me", she muttered.

"Why should I be angry?" he raised a brow.

"I broke my word to you and almost got killed for it", she stated with dead seriousness.

In fact, she had a point. But Athos was not going to press it now. "You merely reacted to the circumstances."

"Yet now, the little one is avoiding me", she stated.

Clearly, she was irritated with D'Artagnan; otherwise she would use his name.

"D'Artagnan is older than you", Athos said mildly.

"But he is a man", she quipped. "Or, much rather, still a boy, not yet forced into maturity."

The notion brought a brief smile to his face. But he also knew the sad history that inspired it. As though she had heard his thoughts, she gazed right at him. "Aramis told you, didn't he?"

"He has", Athos sighed.

Calmly and unblinking, she went on. Her tone was casual but a part of her was distraught. It was hard to miss. "I assume you know about the letter as well?"

He merely nodded. The news had alarmed them all. The mere possibility had upset Treville beyond measure. But it was nothing compared to Porthos's reaction. He had been furious, ready to kill the one responsible on the spot. Except for the fact that there were continents and oceans between them...

"Do you seriously pity me?" the question snapped him out of his thoughts. It was an open accusation.

"I do not..." he began. But Mademoiselle de Sauveterre would not buy it.

"Your look gives you away. Do you think I cannot tell your usual glumness from pity?" she observed flatly.

The remark stung. But he knew better than to fly at it. In part, she was right after all. "My apologies, Mademoiselle."

"I will apologize as well, if I have been too direct. But only if you stop calling me Mademoiselle. It ticks me off." She rolled her eyes.

"If you wish", Athos shrugged.

She allowed herself a quick, victorious smile. "I insist. Although, I assume we are not done, yet."

"I fear not", calmly, Athos set out to break the latest news to her. "On the way back from Le Havre, we received a message. Someone wants to meet you."

From one moment to the next, her smile changed into a look of shocked surprise. "Who?"

"A woman. She said her name was Camille Dufort. The captain knows who she is, so perhaps you recall her as well." He could have mentioned that she had been Mademoiselle's nursemaid. But he wanted to see her reaction first.

She frowned, obviously trying to conjure up old memories. "Possibly. I was barely three when my father spirited me away. I remember little..."

"The captain said she was your nurse and caretaker", he added at last. "Despite all, would you recognize her again?"

She paused for a long moment, thinking hard. But then she nodded. "If it really is her, I will know her face when I see it. But what does she want?"

Athos shook his head apologetically. "She refused to tell us."

"Don't we just love surprises?" she muttered, displeasure written all over her face.

He shared it. "She seemed to have knowledge about the attacks, claiming it was not who we think it is..."

"But she would not let on who?" Mademoiselle asked cynically. "Frankly, I do not care who wants my death. I just want this hell to stop..."

Athos nodded. "As do we all. But perhaps this is a way to end it."

She looked down, playing with the piece of cloth still in her hand. "But it will not save me", she contested quietly. "As long as this idiot's writ is still around..."

The idea of the letter falling into the wrong hands terrified her visibly. And she was right: If it really came to pass, there would be no need for thugs to kill her anymore. The cardinal would simply finish her off on his own territory, over a lie.

"Unless..." at once, she looked up, her eyes bright from sudden epiphany.

After a long moment of thoughtful silence, she grasped his hand.

"I think we should meet her. But there is someone else I have to see first", she told him calmly.

"Who would that be?" Athos frowned.

Mademoiselle said nothing for a long while. Then she was finally ready to share her plan. "We have to seek out the superior", she said, in a very low voice. "Father Martin is a wise leader within the Society. He will know what to do."

"Father Claude Martin?" Athos questioned, full of disbelief. He was failing to keep a straight face. "Are you serious?"

What she had just proposed was sheer madness. Athos had heard of Father Martin. This man was the most powerful Jesuit in France, bearing great power and an equally fearsome reputation. He was no Richelieu, yet he had no mercy for those who crossed him. Should he hear about the letter's claims against her, and deem her guilty, she would face a whole new kind of hell.

Yet there was a mischievous sparkle in her eye. "I am. This may mean nothing to you, but he was the one to insist on christening me, against the cardinal's decree."

"This was a long time ago. His favours might have changed." He eyed her very closely, thinking. In fact, her plan was no less insane than some of their own. But if it went wrong, the consequences would be most dire. She seemed well aware of that. But time was running out. It would only take so long until they would not be able to protect her from Richelieu's wiles anymore. And she had little to lose. In the end, it was a matter of choosing one executioner over the other.

Despite his qualms, Athos relented. If this was her wish, he should at least discuss it with Treville. "But I will ask the captain's permission", he promised grudgingly. "Perhaps he agrees with you."

Her reply was a grateful smile. "Thank you. If he consents, please bring along Aramis. He will thoroughly enjoy this."

"I shall invite him along", Athos got up, offering her his arm. "If you promise to return to bed now, Mademoiselle."

With a fierce glare, she grabbed his elbow. Once she had clambered to her feet, she held out her finished needlework to him. Now he saw that it was one of Porthos's black silk scarves. "Here. Take this back to its owner and ask him for my real name."

"I know your name", Athos replied calmly. "I just don't think it is proper to ..."

Annoyed, she groaned. "Do you only ever stop thinking when in combat?"

"Especially not then", he beckoned her into the bedroom.

Reluctantly, she trudged ahead and plonked down on the bed. "You ponder and brood too much, Monsieur."

"And you can be quite rash and heedless..." he contested.

She snorted. "Just like D'Artagnan then?"

"Stop picking on him", he told her, more sternly than he had intended. But Mademoiselle did not mind.

"It seems we are too much alike for me to stop." She let herself fall against the sheets with an air of finality. "Besides, if you must know, he is only a month older."

"Still", Athos could not help but smirk. She was trying so hard to justify her immature behaviour, it was almost droll. "What you just suggested is wilder than anything he would ever propose."

The young woman groaned. "Well, we all have our reckless moments."

"Does that mean you would like to reconsider your plan?" he probed. A small part of him wished she would. Father Martin was powerful enough to make the risks of a meeting incalculable. The thought filled him with uneasy concern.

But Mademoiselle shook her head, stifling a yawn. "Now you are being squeamish."

It was to be, then. "I am not", Athos said. In fact, he was already pondering how to convince Treville of the plan. The stakes were high, yet he had a feeling the captain might agree. He knew Mademoiselle's past better than any of them. If anyone should be the judge, it was him.

Athos nodded at her, to take his leave. But she had fallen asleep, from one second to the next. Quite obviously, she had given up her pretense of strength. And it was just as well. She would need all her energy for the struggles yet to come.

xx

She did not like to hide. Yet Désirée was glad of the cloak she had grabbed on the way out. These streets were not safe for her. The hood shading her face was a comfort; as was her company. Athos had taken the lead and Aramis had her back. Watchfully, they scanned the surroundings, keeping their eyes on every side alley and dark corner.

With small, but brisk steps, Désirée walked between the two Musketeers. She had tried to look out for herself, but her mind was racing too fast. The thought of facing the Jesuit Superior of France had her on edge.

But her back was against the wall. Gut feeling told her that the cardinal was gaining the upper hand. It was her last chance of deliverance. Yet there was no way of telling whether the superior would grant it. Father Claude Martin had been her father's close friend, but his influence had grown steeply since. Power changed people, and not for the better.

"Désirée?" From behind, Aramis touched her arm. Even though the touch was light, she flinched. "We're here."

"Thanks", she murmured. In front of them lay the Society's Parisian congregation. The tall, white building looked no different from her childhood memories. Désirée remembered it well. She had spent the first years of her life here. If she needed to hide, she would know exactly where to go. Yet she doubted she would still fit into the tight crawlspaces of yore...

"There is still time to turn back", Aramis put in from behind her. It was not the first time today he had voiced his ill-inclined feelings towards this trip.

Désirée sighed. "I did not want your company to dissuade me."

He raised both brows, giving her a quizzical look. "Then why did you want it?"

They had not really discussed the matter, yet. So now, it was high time to catch up. "I need your observations."

"Athos has eyes and ears as well", he retorted.

With a click of her tongue, she turned to whisper into his ear: "But how good is his Greek?"

Surprised, he frowned at her. "Why would you assume I know Greek?"

"I know a priestly education when I see one." Gently, she slapped his shoulder. It had been a wild guess, but the bemused look on his face confirmed its validity. And it was a relief. Without his knowledge of Greek, her two companions would lose track, once conversation got serious. No Jesuit here would ever discuss clandestine, internal issues in French, or even Latin. Aramis was the key to breaking their secrecy.

After one last, encouraging glance at him, Désirée nodded at Athos to go ahead. At a distance, she followed as he walked up the marble steps to the main gate. Two black-robed figures stood guard in front of it. They were novice priests, not visibly armed. But Désirée knew they would be able to defend themselves very well, if the need arose.

One of the two stepped forward to challenge them. "What do you wish?" he asked, his tone sharpened by insecurity.

"We are here to see Father Martin", Athos replied politely, unimpressed by the challenger.

"He is not receiving petitioners today", the young man replied flatly. He seemed in no mood for discussion.

And neither was she. She eyed him closely from behind Athos's shoulder. He was a tall, pie-faced man, a few years older than herself. And he was not as tough as he pretended to be. She saw a spark of confusion in his pale blue eyes.

After a moment, she left the shadows. She shook off her hood and planted herself in front of the priest who stood two heads taller than her.

"Tell him, Désirée de Sauveterre is here to see him", she said calmly, never failing to hold his gaze.

There was a long pause, only interrupted by the young man gulping for air. Then he spun on his heel. As though chased by a pack of hellhounds, he burst through the massive oaken doors. It was a miracle he did not fall on his face.

"I assume he expects us to wait?" Athos inquired. Her awe-inspiring effect on the man appeared to amuse him.

"I've never seen a priest run this fast", Aramis added with a smirk.

Désirée rolled her eyes. "Just a poor excuse of a novice..."

"A novice?" Athos frowned. "Isn't he a tad old for that?"

"Not in the Society. He is already ordained but won't make his final vows for quite some time", she told him.

The notion caused Aramis to sigh. "Why on Earth does a man do that to himself?"

"Because it is a most valiant path. But you seem to know nothing of valour, consorting with the likes of her."

She looked up to see who had spoken. It was the other novice, still posted at the gate. Clearly, he was one of those who had more faith than common sense; just like Father Jerome...

Désirée knew better than to feel insulted. But she felt that Aramis was about to put him into his place. Quickly she touched his arm. It would help none of them. "Save your breath. He'll end up confessing it..."

The disgruntled look on the man's face told her that she was right. Confessing even the tiniest misstep was the worst plight of every novice. Her father had put her through much of the same, if she had let him.

That moment the door reopened and the other novice came back out. "Father Martin will receive you." He was addressing Athos, not her. When he had delivered the information, he retook his place by the gate, showing his companion to take over with a curt nod. Clearly, he would not go near her.

He was not the first by far. Wordlessly Désirée followed on inside, keeping her distance. Aramis was still hovering close by. He struggled hard to hold his tongue in the face of so much coldness.

"They treat you like a cur", he whispered, sounding very displeased.

She shrugged. "They are too young to have known my father and have merely heard the wrong tales."

"Still, it is no way to treat a lady", Aramis replied.

Désirée groaned quietly. She was no lady. But she was tired of mentioning it, yet again. So she said nothing and gazed around the building instead.

In twenty years, nothing about it had changed. They were walking down a long, whitewashed hallway. She remembered running down the length of it, skittering across the marble tiles under her feet. How often had they told her not to run? She could not recall. And never had she listened.

There was a heavy wooden door to her right. It led to the library. They had not wanted her in there, either. But she had snuck inside often enough, to behold the endless scores of books, filling the shelves from floor to ceiling. And sometimes, at night, when she could not sleep, her father would take her here, and read to her from some great book...

Suddenly Athos tugged at her sleeve. He bobbed his head towards their chaperon, beckoning her to follow along. Désirée could not remember stopping. But obviously she had.

"Sorry", she muttered. In front of them, the novice stopped. Wordlessly he showed them into another room. The small audience chamber... A shudder crept down her back. When she entered it, she gazed to her left instinctively. There was a large pillar. She had squeezed in behind it whenever Richellieu had come to see her father. Right now, the same urge to hide overcame her once again.

"You remember the place well, don't you?" Athos inquired quietly.

Désirée was surprised that he cared. "It was my home once", she replied.

She realized that their watchdog was still here. And he kept on staring at her, waiting for a wrong move.

"Only, when I lived here, nobody was glaring at me like this", she added more loudly.

He jumped at the remark almost immediately. "One does not see an abomination every day."

Désirée's jaw dropped. She had nothing to say to this. But someone else saved her the effort of a response. At once the door opened and a tall man in a black cassock entered the hall. Before he even acknowledged their presence, he turned on the novice.

"Is it not truly abominable to judge the things we do not understand?" he snapped. "Have you learned nothing over the past eight years?"

"Father, I...", the youth flushed, groping for words of apology. But he was denied the chance.

"I will not hear it", the father cut him short. "You will leave now and reflect upon your fallacy."

The novice winced. He had been caught red-handed. When he fled the room, Désirée felt a pang of pity. She had been chided in the same way often enough. She had run off then; time and again...

Now Father Martin looked at her for the first time. But she could not bring herself to gaze back. Instead she knelt in front of him. Shakily she touched his hand.

She felt Aramis and Athos exchange a glance. Were they bewildered, or amused? It was hard to tell. Perhaps the gesture was too much, but it was better to be safe.

When the father raised her to her feet, she knew it had been the right thing to do.

"It is all right, child. You have no need to prostrate yourself in front of me", he said mildly.

It was now Désirée looked at him. When she had last seen him, twenty years ago, he had been much younger. But he had aged well. There were a few more lines on his broad face; his beard and the shock of frizzy hair, which had once been a vibrant shade of ginger, were now grey. Yet his keen green eyes had stayed much the same. And they were watching her now, making her nervous.

"Thank you for seeing me, Father", she said very quietly.

"Why would I not?" He gestured towards the bench in the far corner of the small room. "Please, sit."

As he passed by her two companions, he awarded them a grateful nod. "Give Captain Treville my thanks. By keeping her safe, he has done the Society a great service."

"Although not everyone here seems to agree", Aramis put in. Right now, Désirée wanted to strangle him. She had not wanted him here to defend her honour, either.

Gladly, Father Martin was unimpressed. "No, Monsieur. They are, however, not the ones in charge."

Aramis was treading on thin ice here. She shot him a quick, warning glare. He understood and said nothing more, contenting himself with a nod.

"I know why you are here", the father said after a moment.

He withdrew a folded parchment from his robes. She froze, staring at it with wide eyes. The damned letter. It had only taken him a minute to bring it up. Directness had always been his strong suit. And her father had shared this trait.

"You should read it." When Father Martin put it into her hand, she almost jumped.

Désirée bit her lip. It felt like reading her own death sentence. But, at last, she obeyed. Once she had unfolded the thick parchment, Father Jerome's handwriting greeted her: tiny Greek letters, printed in immaculate copperplate. At least he had had the decency to encrypt his accusations somewhat.

Full of apprehension, her eyes scanned the lines. With every passing word, her hands grew colder. He had accused her of a most despicable crime, without ever spelling it out. Only between the lines did she find his outrageous description of her misdeeds. He claimed she had broken the fourth commandment and had wholly deserved to be flogged for it. Of course he did not mention the monstrosity of his own, heedless actions.

Shakily Désirée handed back the writ. It did not contain enough to send her to the scaffold, but it was enough for the Society to break with her, for all eternity.

Luckily, Father Martin was not yet ready to believe the tale as it was. "What is he leaving out?"

They had arrived at Greek after all. Désirée noticed the brief shadow of bewilderment on Athos's face. But Aramis merely raised a brow. For the first time, she was truly glad to have him nearby.

"He left me for death", she replied tonelessly.

The father nodded. He had known already. "And what did you really do?"

Désirée sighed. "My father's bidding. He wanted the people to know that I am..."

"His flesh and blood. That sounds very much like him." Very lightly, he touched her arm. "Of course, such a thing would irritate Father Jerome greatly."

"Does it irritate you as well?" she asked with care.

He shook his head. "It does not. But I can see how distraught it has left you."

"I..." He had seen right through her, just like her own father would have. "I'm afraid the cardinal might have..."

"Read this?" Father Martin was entirely unsurprised about the notion. "Oh, he did, presuming I would not notice."

Désirée trembled. "Then he will get to me soon."

"It will not come to that. He has no business meddling with our affairs", he stated grimly. "It is about time I put him into his place."

His words provoked Aramis to smirk. It was not often someone talked about scolding Richellieu as though it was nothing.

"Thank you, Father." Relief washed over Désirée. She had been afraid to ask for the superior's intercession. But he had spared her the ordeal. Yet, there was one more thing on her mind. It caused her even greater dread. And she would not be spared this time. Uneasily she gazed at her clenched, tremulous hands.

Of course, Father Martin noticed. "What is it?"

"I might have to ask another favour of you, Father", Désirée responded in a very low voice. Shame made her face burn. He had already offered her more than enough kindness. "I am in need of guidance. Ever since my father died, I have had no chance to seek it."

He eyed her closely for a very long moment. With every passing second, Désirée's unease grew. "Not even from his brethren at the mission?" He questioned at last, furrowing his brow.

"No, not since..." She hesitated, unable to speak out the words. Not since the flogging. After that, all the missionaries had been too ashamed to face her. Father Jerome's idiocy had taken good care of that.

The superior's frown deepened. Still, he said nothing. She wondered whether he was concerned for her soul, or simply disapproved of his brethren's negligence. He turned to glance at the two Musketeers. "Gentlemen, would you grant us a moment of privacy?"

Even though spoken politely, it was no request. Yet Désirée saw their hesitation.

Warning was stark in Athos's glare. He probably believed she was about to commit a grave mistake. But she was not. Almost unnoticeably, she shook her head, mouthing a toneless plea.

It was Aramis who reacted first. He cocked his head at his friend and simply walked ahead, out of the door. After a moment, Athos followed. Yet he looked less than happy. Désirée realized that he had no idea what she had asked of the father. But, at least, he trusted her to go ahead. She would explain everything later. For now, all she cared for was to ease her troubled mind.

xx

"There is no need to brood."

Athos spun around to find Mademoiselle de Sauveterre standing right behind him. When had she left the room? And how had she just crept up on him? He exchanged a quick glance with Aramis. But his comrade was no less startled.

But Athos hid the sentiment well. He was in no mood to entertain the young woman at his expense. "I am not brooding", he replied coolly. It was only half true. The fact that she had chosen to have secrets from him, despite promising otherwise, had soured his mood.

Mademoiselle seemed to realize as much. She came closer, speaking quietly. "Father Martin would like a word with you. I told him our confidence extends to you."

"I hope you did not confess your act of self-defence to him", he quipped, still morose. In her fragile emotional state, he feared she would trust too easily, confiding the wrong things into the wrong people. And, even a sage priest like Father Martin would not take well to her impaling a man with her sword, intentionally or not.

She frowned at him, seeming disappointed with his lack of trust. "Please, I grew up among this lot. I know what to omit."

With that she moved away towards Aramis. She was not inclined to discuss matters any further. "Would you like a peek at the library?"

The offer made their watchdog shift uneasily. He disapproved. But she did not care. "Do not worry, I asked for permission. But, you can come, too. You look smart enough to climb a ladder."

As the three went away, she gave him one last look over her shoulder. It seemed composed, but also strangely apologetic. Athos nodded at her. For once, she had broken no promises. Yet, perhaps, there was more about her past she had kept from him. He was about to find out.

xx

When he entered the small room, Father Martin was already expecting him. He sat on the bench where they had last left him. Serenely, he invited Athos to join him, in the spot Mademoiselle had occupied before. It took him a long moment to accept the priest's offer. But he finally gave in and sat.

"You must have many questions", Martin observed evenly. "Please, feel free to ask them."

Yet again, his openness surprised Athos. Even though it seemed genuine, he wondered how far it truly extended. He was not used to talkative clerics in powerful positions.

"It is not my wish to pry, but I do not quite understand what you were just doing." he stated flat out, intent to provoke a reaction.

He did not get one, only more of the same serenity. "I was asked for guidance, and I gave it, as I would for any of my brothers. Désirée's father raised her like one of us. She has learned to live according to our spiritual ways."

Athos frowned. "I had the impression that you did not consider Mademoiselle de Sauveterre a part of your community."

"Then why would I have given her father license to bring her up among us?" Now it was Martin's turn to give him a shrewd look.

Athos raised a brow. It all appeared too simple. "With respect, father, it seems as though she has not always benefited from your permission", he contested.

The priest did not fail to catch his meaning. "Indeed, she has gone through hard times. And, believe me, they have changed her for the worse."

"How would you know?" Athos asked. After all, he had last seen her as a small child.

"Her father's letters", the thought seemed to sadden Father Martin. "She just asked me if she has burdened the Society with her sins, and if she would go to hell for it. The mere idea would have infuriated her father greatly."

Athos understood. This kind of doctrine did not seem to suit her at all. Most likely, it had been beaten into her. "You know the culprit", he observed. "There must be something you can do about him."

"Not much", the superior pursed his lip. "I cannot chastise him openly. Yet he will receive marching orders to return to France immediately. And he shall retract his vile accusations."

"Why can you not punish him?" Athos inquired, unable to curb his pointed tone. It seemed unjust for an honourable woman to be flogged, while her accuser got away nearly unscathed.

Father Martin sighed. "His actions did not harm a member of the Society. Hence the matter surpasses my jurisdiction."

"I hope you did not tell her so directly." Anger rose within Athos. He had no tolerance of so much clerical nonsense.

"She has always known it", the priest replied calmly. "Yet still, the Society will never again fail to protect her innocence and honour."

Athos narrowed his eyes. These words had an air of hypocrisy. "Yet you allow the cardinal to threaten her?" he questioned in a challenging tone.

"I shall deal with him personally", Martin replied grimly. "It is not the first time he needs a reminder whose arm to Rome is longer."

Skeptically, Athos gazed back at him. "Is that enough to keep his ambitions in check?"

The superior nodded. "Twenty years ago, it sufficed to force him into a settlement with Désirée's father. Yet it was not without conditions."

"What conditions?" Athos inquired. Vaguely, he remembered the captain mentioning such terms. But they had not talked about them any further.

"Granting him exile, for swearing never to reveal the true identity of the girl's mother", Martin replied, disapproval marking his face. "Instead, she had to grow up, believing her mother had killed herself."

It was a cruel fabrication, but also a practical one: The deaths self-murderers passed unmentioned. It avoided uncomfortable questions. At the cost of making a pious girl believe her mother was rotting in hell. It felt wrong...

After a long moment Athos finally banished the thought from his mind. Another question presented itself now: "Did her father keep his oath?"

"Of course", Father Martin replied. "He did not even confide the truth in me."

Athos did not wholly believe the priest. "You don't even know whether her mother is still alive?"

"How would I?" Martin spread his hands. "The cardinal is the only one who knows now. But..." he paused to withdraw a small square of paper from the folds of his robe. He handed it to Athos without much ado. "In the event of his death, Désirée's father wanted her to receive this."

He turned over the small, neatly quartered parchment in his hands. It was sealed with the same meticulous care. And the seal looked old. It had not been broken for many years. "Why do you give it to me?"

"She is too distraught at present. You will find a better moment to pass it on."

"If you think so", Athos nodded. Once again, someone had decided to turn him into a messenger and keeper of secrets. Over the past week, it had happened too often already. It was best to give up counting at this very moment.

"And perhaps, you could do me another favour?" Martin asked politely. But the lines of worry on his face spoke a language of urgency.

He merely raised a brow, showing him to go ahead.

"She is in a worse shape than she admits. Look after her; make sure she eats and sleeps", he was frowning with concern now. "Her father once mentioned she would go without food and rest for days whenever something troubled her soul."

"I will try, if she listens to me", he promised.

"She will, more than to me. You should know she refused my offer to stay here in favour of your protection", the superior stood, signalling the end of their interview. "Now I better get underway to Richelieu, before he makes matters worse."

Athos rose as well. He realized that, perhaps, Mademoiselle was less reluctant of their company than she had let on. "Of course. Thank you for your time, Father." He offered the priest a brief bow and made for the door. The visit to the congregation had not met his bad expectations. And he was glad of it. Perhaps, next time, he would find it easier to trust Mademoiselle de Sauveterre's judgment. For once, her gut feeling had not erred.

xx

"Where is she then?" Impatience gnawed at Richellieu. He was gazing out the window, clenching and unclenching his fist. "Obviously, she is not dead."

It was what he had hoped for. But, clearly, Treville and the Musketeers had destroyed his expectations. He did not comprehend why the captain was protecting her, over the pretense of an unresolved murder. Eventually, these actions would pave the way for the regiment's downfall. It was long overdue.

"I shall find her again", Milady said tonelessly. She knew it was unwise to infuriate him any further. "It was a mistake not to follow them into the forest."

"It was", the cardinal had no patience for self-pitying apologies. "I advise you not to make another."

He felt her pacing about the room, her slow steps reverberating off the tiles. She was uneasy.

"There was a great score of attackers", she stated. "I was certain they would finish her. After all, she is but a girl."

Richellieu spun around at her. He wanted to hear none of this. Whoever had ordered the ambush, had sent half-wits. "You have no idea what she is."

Milady held his gaze defiantly. "Judging from your reaction, she must be a great nuisance."

"Her father was a nuisance", he retorted sharply. Désirée de Sauveterre was much more. She was her father's ultimate blow against him. So far, the young woman seemed wholly igorant of this crucial fact. Yet, should she ever find out, her death was inevitable, to protect his interests. Judging from the ferocious attempts on her life, others feared the end of her ignorance just as well. Probably even more so...

The sudden approach of heavy footsteps interrupted Richellieu's thoughts. He turned away from the window to find a guard in front of his desk.

The burly man was pale-faced and panting. He looked terrified, as though he had just seen a ghost.

"Speak", the cardinal demanded impatiently.

"Your eminence...", his man swallowed hard. "There is a visitor, demanding to see you immediately. I was told that..." he faltered.

Richellieu narrowed his eyes warningly. "You were told what?"

"That your refusal would have dire consequences... your eminence", repeating such a threat to his face caused the guard to blanch even more.

A sudden flush of anger sent hot ripples down the cardinal's back. Whoever dared threaten him like that was either foolish, or truly dangerous. After a moment's consideration, he waved away Milady. Once she had vanished through the back door, he nodded at the guard. He would receive this preposterous intruder. He was in no mood to take any further chances today.

The guard bowed and left. A moment later, he returned. Once Richellieu set eyes on the slender figure in his wake, he barely suppressed a shudder. Before he could stop it, his face derailed, betraying shocked surprise. This was impossible.

"Why are you here?" he questioned tonelessly, as though to chase off an unwanted spirit.

His reaction did not faze the visitor. "Armand, it seems we must talk business."

Richellieu sat down heavily. Neither was this an apparition, nor was Désirée de Sauveterre dead. Instead she was alive and cunning enough to conjure up ghosts from the past, to bring down great calamity upon him.

Wrath rose within Richelieu. He would never forgive her this move. Even if her daring attempt succeeded, she would pay the reckoning for it. And it would cost her dearly...


	9. Inconspicuous Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Richelieu learns some unexpected truths, Désirée and the Musketeers ride to face a very dangerous encounter that might get them closer to find out the true identity of her mother...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, a slightly longer chapter filled with action and some surprises. I hope you will like it. =)

9\. Inconspicuous Truths

"What do we do now?" As they stepped through the garrison gates, Désirée gave her two companions an expectant smile.

For the first time since her arrival in Paris, she felt an air of contentment. Despite her many concerns, their excursion to the Jesuits had been a success. Yet there was another matter to resolve: meeting the strange woman Athos and D'Artagnan had encountered in the forest. And she was eager to get it over with. But, obviously, that would not happen all too soon. Athos's unresponsive demeanour told her as much.

"We wait." He stated as he took off his hat.

She raised a challenging brow. "Until the sky falls down...?"

"Until our contact gets in touch." His tone was polite, but not open for discussion. "In the meantime, I suggest you go inside and get some rest."

Désirée rolled her eyes to the heavens. "I may have been wounded, but I am not tired." It was only half true. Had he not suggested it, she would have gone upstairs to her bedroom now.

"Fair enough. Then you should at least have dinner", he nodded towards the table across the yard. Aramis had already gone there to join Porthos and D'Artagnan. They now sat around it, chatting.

"I will", she conceded. "But the next time anyone tells me to eat or sleep, I'll get. very, very grumpy." Slowly she moved towards the others. As she walked across the packed dirt, her wound decided to ache. A stinging pain gnawed at her calf. It reminded her that she was still far from well. But she managed to hide the hurt. With a little smile, she sat down by Porthos's side. "Miss me?"

"Always", he winked at her.

"Now that's remarkable", Aramis chimed in with a smirk. "You two have known each other for less than a week and now, you already miss each other..."

"Says the right one", Porthos muttered, trying not to snort into his cup.

Désirée chuckled. "You know what else is remarkable?" She nodded at D'Artagnan who sat opposite her. "Just how this young gentleman here has not spoken to me in three full days..."

And now he pouted at her, on top of it. "What's there to say?"

"You can keep quiet for all I care", she half-closed her eyes. "But I have something to tell you."

D'Artagnan perked up. He seemed to sense a trap. "Go on then."

"You have done nothing wrong. It was entirely my fault I got injured in that forest." She offered him a little smile. "There is no need for you to take blame and sulk about when I am too clumsy to wield my sword."

But D'Artagnan was not about to stop brooding. "Still, I failed my duty to protect you."

"Nonsense", she spread her hands, close to giving up. He was being a gallant fool. "When it happened, you were busy, doing just that. And now I will have no more of it. I cannot bear being around a gloomy youngster for much longer."

"Fine", he gave in at last, "but only if you quit insulting me. It is getting rather annoying."

Désirée snorted. "I think we have a deal."

"If you like", D'Artagnan replied, sounding nonplussed. He still seemed to be far from happy with their arrangement. "Please excuse me now."

He stood, pulled on his gloves, grasped his rapier, and strode across the yard to join Athos for a training fight.

A little jealous, she watched him go. It had been months since she had last sparred with someone. And she missed the practice most sorely.

"Will he get a fair thrashing?" she inquired in a low voice. It was hard to imagine D'Artagnan stood any chance against Athos. She had seen his skill. It would even impress the kung-fu masters who had trained her in China.

Next to her, Porthos nearly choked on his wine. Instinctively, she slapped his back. Her venomous question had taken him by surprise.

"He might", Aramis replied with a grin. "But I would not underestimate him."

Désirée frowned. "Even though I have disarmed him in a single move before?"

"Well", Aramis was chuckling now. "He underestimated you all the same. I believe there are no sword-wielding wenches in Gascony."

"That", Porthos brought out hoarsely. He was still coughing. As Désirée kept on rubbing the space between his shoulder blades, she turned her attention to the fight.

D'Artagnan was keeping up, indeed. He moved fast, parrying whatever slash Athos threw at him. The second he had fended off a blow, he made to attack.

With remarkable speed, he drove his rapier forward. Smoothly, it flashed through the air, clashing with Athos's blade. The blow was strong enough to drive back any opponent.

But it left Athos unfazed. After one step backwards, he moved sideways, pulling free his weapon. His next thrust came from below.

D'Artagnan stumbled, but kept his balance. He pulled back the rapier, spinning to the side to pull the dagger at his hip. The fight had become serious.

Athos retaliated with a powerful broadside slash of his blade, forcing him backwards. The very second D'Artagnan made to parry his strike, he grabbed his own dagger. In one fluid motion, he evaded the oncoming blade, stopping it with his own.

Emboldened by Athos's temporary retreat, D'Artagnan gave heed to his youthful temper.

A little too quickly, he rushed forward. Athos had waited for it. Unseen his foot darted out. As D'Artagnan's boot caught on it, he raised both his blades. They crashed against the onrushing rapier.

While D'Artagnan kept hold of his weapon, his sword arm twisted upwards. The motion unbalanced him for good. He stumbled sideways and fell. His back was to Athos now. Otherwise he could have kicked out, to continue the fight. But, right now, he had been put into checkmate. With a curse, he rubbed his rear and stood.

"If he were less hot-headed, Athos would be in for a tough time", Aramis commented, toying with the piece of bread in his hand.

"But, for now, Athos is still the best swordsman around", Porthos added.

Still, Désirée, had misjudged the young man's fighting abilities. D'Artagnan had a great lot of raw talent. Now it bemused her how she had tripped him at all. Instead, they should have crossed swords.

She sighed. Suddenly she felt incredibly exhausted. The last hours had been very hard on her body. Porthos cast a worried glance into her direction. She realized that she was even too tired to hide the strain anymore.

"Are you all right?" Porthos asked. Gingerly, he touched her cheek.

"Just a little sleepy", she said, easing his worries.

"Do you want me to carry you upstairs?" he offered, wholly serious.

"I can walk, thank you", she replied peevishly. In an unconscious motion, she reached down to rub her aching calf.

Almost instantly, it alerted Aramis: "I wonder how your dressings are doing..." He beckoned to see her leg.

With a groan, Désirée hiked up her skirts, sticking out her foot under the table so it landed in his lap.

"Thank you", with a little smile he examined the bandages. Then a frown crept onto his face. He was not happy. "Exactly when did I ask you to wrap them yourself?" he asked, tugging at the linens.

"You didn't", she replied, flushing a little. "But I was bored, and wanted to help."

"I appreciate that", he stated, half-closing his eyes. "Yet, you could use some instructions first."

He stood, holding out his hand to her.

"Upstairs then?" she sighed. When he nodded, she turned to plant a quick kiss on Porthos's forehead. Only then did she get up.

Amused, the two comrades exchange a meaningful look. Then they started chuckling.

"First things first, I see", Aramis observed. "If you are done now..." gently, he grasped her arm, ushering her towards the stairs to the gallery.

On the way, they passed Athos. He had been chatting with D'Artagnan but turned when he saw her.

Désirée stopped. She had forgotten to tell him a very important thing before.

"Thank you again for..." She began. But she did not have the words to truly express her gratitude for his help. He had been under no obligation to go along with her plan. But he had agreed, despite all risks. And by it, he had probably saved her from a most horrid fate.

He did not seem to mind her lack of words. "Don't mention it."

She smiled, then chewed her lip, wondering if this was the right time to ask the other question still on her mind.

But it was too late. Athos had already noticed her hesitation. "What is it?" he asked equably.

Désirée relented. She could as well speak it out: "Would you teach me to fight with a rapier?"

"No", his response came quick and sounded very definite. He showed no feelings when he spoke.

Again, Désirée's face began to burn. Asking him had been a silly idea. Yet she was not satisfied with his answer. "No, because...?"

"You are still injured", he observed with an air of calm neutrality.

She sighed, relieved that her suggestion had not affronted him."Good point", she nodded and faced away, too exhausted and embarrassed to discuss the issue any further.

When she turned to look at Aramis, he seemed rather amused. "Give it time", he said. "He knows he will get in trouble if my needlework rips apart."

"Funny", Désirée muttered. She was in no shape to deliver a wittier reply. The urge to rest was so overpowering now, it clouded over her thoughts.

"Not funny at all", Aramis replied. He looped his arm around her waist, obviously afraid she might pass out on the spot. It was a wise precaution. She allowed him to take her upstairs, so they would not need it.

xx

"What do you want?" Richelieu delivered the question with a hateful scowl. He was not yet over the shock of Claude Martin simply appearing in his study. The Jesuit superior was not his enemy. Yet, apparently, that was about to change...

"I do not have to explain myself." He spoke with patronizing coldness. "Yet you do."

The cardinal narrowed his eyes. Nobody dared address him in such a way. "The first minister of France has no need for explanations. You forget yourself."

"This is hardly about France", Martin contested, his tone quiet and tense. He was not going to abandon whatever intentions had brought him here.

Frustrated anger found its way to the surface. Richelieu did his best to curb it. The man before him was powerful. He held enough clerical authority to unleash a crippling avalanche of trouble. A sizeable part of his mind ached to have him removed. But it was a foolish choice. He was simply not prepared for the consequences.

"If this is about her..." he replied through clenched teeth.

The Jesuit chose to take offence from his words. " _She_ has a name", he rebuked him flat out. "You might as well speak it out."

"Désirée de Sauveterre, your beloved pet bastard", Richelieu spat out her name. So she was still alive... The notion soured his mood even more. Tension started building between his eye sockets. Only barely did he resist the urge to rub the bridge of his nose.

Clearly infuriated by the slight, Martin approached his desk, until mere inches were left between them. "You will not blight her honour", he demanded, wrath flashing in his eyes. "And she is not the main reason for my call."

"Then what is?" irritated the cardinal waved a hand at him, as though to swat away a nasty fly.

The black-robed priest paused. After a moment, his hands touched the tabletop and he leaned forward. His voice was toneless and disdainful, "Did you seriously think I would not notice your reading my private correspondence?"

Inwardly, Richelieu swore. He should have kept this missionary's bloody letter. He had only passed it on in the hope of inciting Mademoiselle de Sauveterre's demise. The superior had the means to destroy people. It irked him that he chose to do the opposite this time.

"Well, I am glad I did. Now I am aware that you are harbouring a criminal offender in your midst", he retorted. His turn to make threats had finally arrived.

The other man's face remained perfectly stoic. "I advise you not to make false assertions. Her actions were most honourable and virtuous."

"You will not advise me what to do", the cadinal snapped. "Be glad if I abstain from a charge."

"On what grounds?" Martin eyed him challengingly. "The Chinese code of laws?"

Richelieu was aware of her having committed a considerable offence by that foreign standard. It was all he required. A thin-lipped sneer appeared on his face. "Why not? I have proof enough... not that I needed any."

But it seemed too early to celebrate his victory. The Jesuit was entirely unfazed by his suggestion. The way he crossed his arms in front of his chest was almost relaxed. "Speaking of proof... I am sure his Holiness the Pope will not be pleased to learn about certain matters you have kept from him."

He rolled his eyes. "These are matters of state. And I do not care for the Pope's approval. You of all people should know that."

"Matters of state?" Martin snorted derisively. "The girl is of no such importance. The only matter is your festering grudge against her father. He is dead now. So why can you not let it rest?" his tone was accusing now.

"Because he betrayed me", the cardinal stated flat out. There was no need to hide it. Much as the Jesuits had tried to play down that part, their superior was not ignorant of it. "And I will be damned if he has not let her in on his plots."

"What you call a plot was righteous honesty. Father Jean-Marie merely had the courage to disclose the skeletons in your dirty closet", the other man was becoming angry now. "It is not surprising, the Pope favoured him over you."

He bit his lip. The papal favour had been the only thing saving de Sauveterre from excommunication. Had he not been desperate to protect the girl's mother from dishonour, there would have been no leverage to force him into silence and exile, either.

But no such connections would save his daughter this time. Then, her father had stolen her away to China. Now, she was back in his reach. And Richelieu was not inclined to let her slip away again. He was going to finish her, Jesuit protection or none.

"Well, Claude, an illegitimate daughter will hardly regain Rome's favour", he concluded at last. "And do not believe your intercession will keep her safe. Take one step against me and I will make sure that your precious little girl will never see the light of day again." The notion amused him. It would solve all his problems at once.

The superior, however, did not share the enjoyment. His eyes narrowed warningly. "Harm her and Rome will hear enough to strip you of any office you have ever held, clerical and secular."

"Please", the smirk stayed on Richelieu's face. "Even you cannot achieve that. Not even your Superior General could..."

"I believe we have just discussed the man who had such power", Martin observed coolly.

The damned girl's father of course... He had simply known too much. Yet, most of de Sauveterre's knowledge had died with him, far away in China. It was a comfort. "What is the word of a dead exile against mine?" he demanded.

"Nothing", the Jesuit replied, keeping a straight face, not ceasing to radiate

an unsettling amount of calmness. "But, sadly for you, the father has planned ahead. He has sent me a very compelling list of well-proven accusations."

Now Richelieu blanched. The blood left his hands. As they grew cold, his headache flared up fiercely. This was impossible... it was a ridiculous bluff. "I do not believe you."

"Then put it to the test. All you have to do, is to raise charges against his daughter. And there is enough proof of her innocence, just waiting to be presented", Martin replied firmly. "Will you risk your reputation for such a petty gamble? I know you are wiser than that."

He was, indeed. The superior had him in a most efficient foothold now. He himself could not have engineered it any better. The threat may be a bluff, but calling it, and being wrong, would cost him dearly.

For the moment, it seemed easier to heed the superior's demands. As long as there were still enough assassins about to kill the girl, the cardinal only had to wait for the issue to resolve itself.

"What do you ask?" he inquired, swallowing the fury about his caving in so quickly.

"Your word, before God, that you will not bother Désirée de Sauveterre any further", the Jesuit replied neutrally.

"You shall have it", Richelieu replied grudgingly.

On the inside, he was more than ready to break the promise, once he had the means to dispose of Father de Sauveterre's poisonous legacy for good. God would get no say in it.

"I am glad of your good common sense", Father Martin replied, finally allowing himself a show of contentment. With a simple nod, he took his leave, unbidden. It was an affront, to brag his status and power.

But Richelieu let him walk away. He felt glad to see him depart. Still, it bewildered him why a mere friend of Jean-Marie de Sauveterre's would come here and take great personal risks to protect his bastard daughter. The question burned itself into his mind. He could not resist the temptation to ask it:

"Why do you even care about her?"

For a few seconds, his words lingered in midair, about to fade away unanswered. But, mere inches from the doorstep, Father Martin stopped. He did not turn back. Yet he responded: "She has lost enough, thanks to you and others. If I do not show her mercy, who will?"

His face stayed hidden, but his words were unmistakably cold.

"If you want to show mercy", the cardinal retorted ironically, "why not find her a nice, quiet place in a nunnery?"

The suggestion provoked nothing but a quiet chuckle. "You might as well burn it down on the spot." With that, the Jesuit slipped outside.

Richelieu did not buy the pious tales of mercy. Surely, Martin's ulterior motives differed. And, whatever they were, it would be his pleasure to use them against the superior's incalculable little protegée... very soon.

xx

_Her bare feet pattered against the soft, sandy ground. As she ran, the high maiden grass brushed against her arms and snagged at her flowing hair. She had no idea where she was headed. But she kept on going. Being lost did not bother her. Around her, the field of grass raced by, faster and faster. Very suddenly, the thick clumps of foliage faded away. She had reached a clearing._

_Around her, the wind stirred up clouds of dry earth. She felt every single grain prickle against her skin. But it was not the only thing she sensed. She was not alone._

_Alarmed she whirled around. But there was no evil lurking behind her. Instead she saw a tall man, clad all in black. It was her father. He had been looking for her._

_With a surge of joy, strong enough to make her heart pound wildly, she rushed forward, straight into his open arms. She was barely tall enough to reach around his waist. So she clung to the folds of his dark robe, sobbing. She would never let him go. His strong hands came to rest on her shoulders, keeping her safe._

_With the next gust of wind, she stopped feeling his touch. When she gazed up, he had vanished, blown away with the sand. She was all alone now, surrounded by a cold void of misery. Uncontrollably, the tears burst from her eyes, threatening to dissolve her into nothingness. Just like him..._

Panting, Désirée woke. Tears had wet her face. She had been dreaming. Through the window lattice, she saw the first beams of breaking daylight. How long had she slept?

Startled she sat up, looking around. Only then did she notice the trespasser by her bedside. It was Porthos. He had woken her. His fingers still rested against her arm.

Even in the half-gloom, she spotted a trace of concern on his face. "It was only a bad dream", he said soothingly.

"Not a bad one. It's just..." Désirée muttered. But then she waved the thought away. "Never mind. Is something amiss?" She reached for his hand.

"There has been a messenger, to arrange the meeting." He helped her out of bed.

Finally. She was tired of waiting. "That is good news." She slipped on her skirt and pointed at the corset which hung over the chair behind him.

Porthos passed it to her. "Do you need a hand?"

Désirée shook her head. She had gotten used to donning this cumbersome piece of attire by now. Yet she required help of another kind. The dream kept on pushing itself back into her thoughts and so did the urge to share it with him. He would understand.

"Can I ask you something?" she inquired, almost shyly.

He nodded, offering her a warm smile of encouragement. "Ask me anything you like."

Emboldened by his generous offer, Désirée went on. "Do you sometimes dream of your mother?"

The question seemed to surprise him greatly, to the point of startling him. But he did not refuse her. After a long, thoughtful pause, he replied. There was a melancholy air about him now. Yet it faded as quickly as it had arisen. "Sometimes... perhaps", he said. "I do not remember her very well. Why?"

"The dream I had..." Désirée faltered. "It was about my father."

"Do you miss him?" Porthos asked. Tentatively, he reached for her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze.

She sighed. "I..." So far, she had refused to admit it; but she did miss him, very much. His death had left a gaping hole in her heart. A tear rolled down her cheek. As it fell into her palm, she shuddered.

"He still means a lot to you." Porthos observed. He pulled her close, doing his best to give her some comfort.

Désirée allowed him to hug her. All of a sudden she felt drawn to him, relishing his warmth and kindness. "He was my everything", she whispered into his shirt.

Porthos made no reply. And he did not have to. The kiss he planted on her hair was all she needed.

After a moment, they disentangled their embrace. A little stunned by what had just happened, she made for the door, still holding on to his arm. Before she opened it, she gave him a coy smile. "Thank you."

"Whatever for?" he asked, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards.

"For listening", Désirée said. She had not experienced anyone taking an interest in her most intimate feelings, ever since the fevers had snatched away her father. Once more, she turned around, reaching up to touch his cheek. After a moment, overcome by a sudden, playful urge, she ruffled his curly hair.

"Hey", Porthos responded by grasping one of her corset laces. Teasingsly, he coiled it around his finger, pulling on it ever so slightly.

Désirée shrieked. Before she could stop the motion, her elbow poked into his stomach.

"Careful", he chuckled, "I'm ticklish."

His last remark was too much for her. Out of nowhere, a bout of laughter grabbed her, so fiercely, it doubled her over. It was a foreign sensation. She had not laughed out loud in many months.

Once she had regained enough breath to stand upright, Désirée stepped onto the gallery. There she found Aramis awaiting her. With a smirk, he held out her riding cloak. "I believe you two just woke the whole rest of Paris", he stated, obviously glad to find her in good spirits.

"I would hope so", she retorted. Her sudden cheerfulness pleased her no less. Yet she had no idea how long the joy would last.

xx

"I am afraid, but in your condition, you will not ride a horse on your own", Athos told her, friendly but firmly.

From the way Désirée's face clouded over, Aramis knew a thunderstorm was imminent. But she held back. "Is that so?"

"I am afraid it is", he added, more apologetically. "As matters stand, it would be too dangerous."

"Because I am a cripple now?" she fired back.

The words hurt. He had put too much effort into preventing just that from happening. But Aramis abstained from chiding her. After all, Désirée's fair mood had softened the words into a half jest.

"No. But not all of us have had the honour of riding with you, yet", he replied, swallowing the last of his disgruntlement.

Désirée's response was unexpected:

"So I am a hand-me-down among comrades", she quipped, snatching the hat off Aramis's head. Grinning she tried it on. It was slightly too big for her.

"Hardly", with a sigh of exasperation, he snatched back what was his. A few minutes ago, he had enjoyed her unusually cheerful demeanour. Now it became somewhat annoying. "But you are quite a handful", he stated, making a great effort not to sound bashful as he returned the hat to its proper place. The fact that Porthos was laughing now, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle, was not helping at all.

It was Athos's cocked eyebrow that stopped his friend's laughter. All morning, Athos had been quiet and brooding. Perhaps it was apprehension, but he was not usually the fretful type. Much rather, the loss of control did for him. He had had little say regarding the meeting ahead. And now, he was forced to assure Désirée's safety, in a wholly incalculable situation.

Porthos was not oblivious of their friend's feelings, either. He gave Athos a brief nod and put on a more serious expression. Like they all, he was well aware that the time for jokes would end, once they left through the garrison gates. Out on the road, the threat on Désirée's life was still too real to risk any inattention.

And she seemed to feel the building tension, too. After her last jape, absolute silence had settled over her. Her hand was wrapped around the leather string across her shoulder, holding the sheath of her Chinese sword. Her eyes were closed. It looked as though she was praying.

As Aramis touched her arm, Désirée spun around, startled. She was staring directly at him. There was no merriment now. Instead, she allowed a glimmer of her true feelings to show.

Not for the first time, he had misjudged the young woman. She was nervous, even afraid. Her playful joking had been a decoy. She was not ready to face the dangers of the outside world again.

"You do not have to do this", he offered in a low voice. There was no certainty whether this meeting would bring her closer to the truths she sought.

Yet Désirée's belief in it conquered all fear. "Too late now" she shrugged. "We should get it over with."

"But preferably without you stealing my hat again..." He lifted her into the saddle and sat up behind her.

Almost gratefully, Désirée accepted his invitation to return to her pretence. "Wait, wasn't it D'Artagnan's turn to share?" she inquired.

The one in question overheard the remark as he rode past. He was not entirely amused. "Not until next week", he replied, visibly relieved to serve as their vanguard today. Even though they had buried their differences, the burden of Désirée's safety still weighed most heavily against D'Artagnan's shoulders. Aramis knew that, should she be harmed on his watch, his young friend would never find peace again.

xx

Athos did not like it. Nothing about the plan felt right. A meeting at the outskirts of Paris, in broad daylight was far from safe. They would present a prime target for sharpshooters. But they had to live with the risks. This encounter was the only way to ascertain the strange woman's identity. If her claims held true, she possessed vital information regarding the attacks on Mademoiselle de Sauveterre's life. And, if they did not get a lead on the assassins now, Mademoiselle would get killed sooner or later.

The thought of her certain death was with him as he approached the chosen location. Slowly, he walked his horse into the shade of the ruined chapel. Their aspect gave him some momentary comfort. But it did not last. Only a few years ago, the building had burned down to the ground. A few coarse stone walls remained, scattered about a wide perimeter. The cover they provided was patchy at best. But it was better than nothing.

Ahead of him, D'Artagnan was circling the ruins. Since he had not turned back after scouting, the area was safe, for now.

As Athos approached, the young man steered his mount towards him. "They are coming", he said.

"They?" Athos frowned. He did not like the sound of it.

"There are two women, about half a mile away", D'Artagnan reported. "From what I saw, they are unarmed."

"I would hope so", he muttered. Behind him, Aramis and Porthos arrived. He glanced at Mademoiselle. During the ride, she had been very quiet. Now she seemed greatly distraught.

As Athos pulled closer he realized that she was shivering. Aramis was rubbing her back, more to soothe than warm her. Athos doubted the cold was even remotely part of the problem.

"Don't worry", Aramis said in a low voice. Gingerly, he smoothed down her cloak with his palm. "All will be well. We will make sure of it."

That moment, the two riders appeared at the ruin's far side. Athos coaxed his horse forward. He motioned for Porthos to follow.

They met the two women among the rubble of a collapsed wall. As they were close enough, Madame Dufort shook off her cowl.

"Gentlemen, thank your for coming."

"Madame", he acknowledged her curt greeting with a raised brow. His eyes travelled towards her companion. She was very young, no older than eighteen and of a short, slender built. Her plain linen cap hid a thick shock of russet hair.

"This is Evangeline, my mistress's maid", Madame Dufort said, as the girl gave them a shy nod. "Her ladyship insisted I do not ride to meet you on my own. And I see you did not come alone, either. Can I talk to her?"

Next to him, Porthos stirred uncomfortably. Something was on his friend's mind. "I have a question first", he announced with a scowl. His expression left no doubt about his mistrust towards her.

Yet his unfavourable show of feelings left Madame Dufort untouched. "Go ahead then", she said impatiently.

"Why did you insist on meeting us here?" Porthos questioned. The corner of his mouth was twitching unfavourably. Athos knew it was never a good sign, especially not if he was intent on protecting someone he cared for. And he cared a great deal for Mademoiselle de Sauveterre. "Even you should know this place is not safe."

"It is not, indeed", she replied, still not changing her deadpan expression. "But tell me, just how safe would it have been if I met you in Paris? Those who seek to harm your charge seek to harm me as well. If I show face in the city, I am likely to be killed before I reach you. And if I made it to the garrison alive, the cardinal would find out. After that, no place in France would be safe anymore."

She had a point. The stakes were high and there was no perfectly safe way to arrange a meeting. Their best bet was to keep things as short as possible. Discussing the unchangeable did not help it. "If you are done..." Athos gave Porthos a hard look. It was enough to silence his comrade; yet the suspicious frown remained on his face, radiating even more unhappiness than before. But it could not be changed, not now. It was time to do what they had come for. After a glance at D'Artagnan who had continued to watch the site, he signalled for Aramis to approach.

As Aramis reined in amidst them, there was a loud gasp. With a start, Athos beheld Mademoiselle. Wide-eyed, she was staring at the other woman. Her chest was heaving visibly as she fought to draw breath. She had recognized Madame Dufort instantly.

The recognition instilled a sudden rashness in her. Before Aramis had a chance to grab a hold of her, she leapt from the saddle. She landed on her good leg and moved forward briskly, to avoid any protests.

"Désirée...", Aramis began after a long moment. But he never finished the sentence. It was too late to stop the young woman.

Athos shook his head towards his comrade. He disapproved no less of her disregarding all safety. Yet gut feeling told him to let her go. Instead of holding her back, he rode forward, staying close. There was no telling what threats might lurk in the tiniest oversight.

xx

It was her... It really was her. Désirée's heart leapt with unknown ferocity. Deep inside, the elder woman's fair, round face called up long lost memories. For the first years of her life, she had fed her, sang to her and seen to her every need. There was no chance she would ever forget her oldest friend.

"Camille!" she brought out after a long time of stunned, unbelieving silence.

As she moved closer with large steps, Camille dismounted as well. Cautiously, she ventured forward. When they stood, facing each other, she grasped Désirée's hands.

"Désirée, my dearest girl. It is good to see you again, after so long..." She seemed no less overjoyed.

Désirée sighed, "Twenty years are an eternity." Wistfully, she gazed at her former nursemaid.

She still remembered the night they had been torn apart. Even though she had only been a little girl, her cries were still as real as though they had never ended. The hatred she had felt, though, seemed surreal now. She had despised her father for separating them. All she had wanted, was to die, to break his heart.

For weeks, she had refused to speak or eat. And, very nearly, her childish stupidity had ended her life. Even now, she had no idea how she had survived the long journey to China.

"You have grown tall", Camille touched her cheek, "and you are the image of your father."

Désirée half-closed her eyes. Something about this observation caused her to feel a surge of bitterness. "It is better than looking like a dead woman I have never known, is it not?"

"Silly girl", the elder woman smiled sagely. "Your mother is still alive."

"What?" startled she pulled away from her. Cold shock gripped her. These words sounded like a preposterous lie. "Why has my father never told me?"

"He swore not to", Camille replied, sounding sad. "To protect both of you. And he asked the same of me."

It made sense. Even now, whenever she had asked about her mother, people avoided talking about her. If they knew anything, it was no more than the story she had heard all her life. Even Father Martin had had nothing else to offer.

"Has she sent you to find me?" she questioned, still frowning.

Camille nodded. "She has indeed. After all that has passed, she is hoping to meet you."

"I..." Désirée stammered. At once, tears burst from her eyes. She was unable to cope with this unexpected twist of fate.

Camille hugged her. Gently, she caressed her hair. "Please don't cry, dear. Everything will be fine now."

Suddenly the soothing motion of her palm stopped dead. Within seconds her grip became desperately tight. Something was wrong. Désirée heard an urgent shout. It was a warning. But she failed to make out the words. Her whole attention dwindled to the warm sensation of blood splashing into her face.

Camille's body was quaking. Her nails dug into Désirée's flesh. Gasping she beheld her friend, convulsively gasping for air. Out of nowhere, a musket ball had buried itself in her neck. She was dying.

From the corner of her eye, a shadow approached. With brute force, it thrust itself at her. Seconds later, Désirée's body crashed against the hard ground.

"No!" Wrath filled her. They had been ripped apart again. Blindly, she fought the intruder who was holding her body down. She lashed out with all her strength, kicking and screaming.

"Désirée, stop!" A familiar voice called to her. But she was not listening. Nobody had the right to force her away from her friend, in the hour of her death. She had to get back to her. With unabated ferocity, she kept on struggling. Suddenly, a hand struck her face, hard.

"Look at me."

The hit burned like fire. Its sting startled her into a stupor. Perplexed, she did as she was told. When her eyes fell upon Athos, she hated herself.

Shocked she beheld the slow-moving chaos that had broken loose beyond the protection of his body. As time sped up again, the sounds of battle exploded in her ears. Gunshots shook the air; men were shouting as horses trampled and trumpeted through the din.

Athos had just saved her life.

She tried to apologize, but the words refused to come. He acknowledged her feeble attempt with a curt nod.

Suddenly, another salvo of musket balls rained down on them. All around, the shots hit the sandy earth. Every impact made her heart jump with fright. They were trapped.

Like a tidal wave, panic rolled over her. Uncontrollably, Désirée's muscles started trembling. She fought to steady herself, but her body disobeyed. With all his weight Athos pinned her down, keeping her safe.

Slowly, reality began to slip her grasp. As he pulled her face against his shoulder, to shield it from the crippling hail of lead, her world turned into a blur.

xx

Athos's worst nightmare had just come true. The enemy was riddling them with musket balls from all sides. He pressed Mademoiselle's body against his, protecting her from the worst of the fire.

His eyes darted left and right. He was tense, waiting for the others to clear a passage out of this fire trap. Nearby, an assassin tumbled from his lair, shot dead.

"Athos!" Aramis called to him. He had opened them an escape route. But it would not last for long.

Athos wasted no time. He rolled over. His hands tightened their grip around Mademoiselle's back, pulling her along. After rolling a few yards, he grasped her arm. He laid it across his shoulders and stood. She felt strangely heavy. Startled, he glanced at her. She had gone into shock. Stupour had her in its grasp, paralyzing her. But there was nothing to do about it.

They had to go. Now. He started running, half carrying, half dragging her along. Suddenly a bullet flashed past, mere inches from his face. Without slowing, he drew his pistol and fired. A scream told him he had not missed.

Athos quickened his steps now. He raced on, until he spotted his horse. The animal had fled the battle, to hide in an alcove of half-crumbled rock walls. They offered some protection from the raging fight. Once he reached the animal, he let go of Mademoiselle. As he sat her down, she was still petrified. Every inch of her was quivering as she kept on staring fixedly ahead.

Her friend's death had been brutal. And she had been incredibly lucky. The shot had missed her by inches. No doubt, it had been meant for her. Athos crouched in front of the young woman. Carefully, he put a finger under her chin, to behold her face. She barely reacted. Blood had splattered across her cheek and neck; but it was not her own.

"Are you harmed?" he asked, looking directly into her fiery eyes. Fresh tears had dulled and reddened them. Yet, at last, they acknowledged him. Very weakly, Mademoiselle nodded. She was beginning to regain control. But she was still shaking.

"I will get you to safety", Athos promised. He pulled her up and caught the horse by its bridle. The sooner they left, the better. He lifted Mademoiselle into the saddle, never letting go of the young woman's shivering body.

Quickly, he mounted, spurring the horse forward. Ahead of him, the abandoned ruin had turned into a blood-soaked battleground, within mere minutes. He galloped through the chaos, fast enough to dodge any stray shots. Seconds later, he dove into the protection of the tree line. Once he had passed it, Athos curbed his mount.

He paused to listen. Behind them, the noise of the fight was beginning to die. Among the trees, everything seemed quiet. He perceived no unusual activity. For now, they were safe here. Or so he believed. The sudden reverberation of hoof beats destroyed his hopes. His fingers closed tightly around the spare pistol in his saddle holster. With a silent click the catch came off. When he turned around, the gun's muzzle pointed straight at D'Artagnan.

And his comrade was not alone. In his wake rode Madame Dufort's young companion. The sight of a drawn weapon frightened her visibly.

Quickly, Athos lowered his pistol. He was in no mood to calm another panicked woman today.

"What of the attackers?" he asked his friend.

"There were nine men. Two of them surrendered", he reported. "Porthos and Aramis are just tying them up. They will follow us once they are ready."

Athos raised a brow. "Follow us where?"

In response, D'Artagnan encouraged his young companion to come forward. She seemed hesitant. Her face was flushed and it appeared as though she feared to voice whatever suggestion she was about to make.

"I... We thought, Mademoiselle might like to finally meet her mother", she said very quietly.

It was a sensible thought. Yet Athos felt disinclined. For a long moment he gazed at Mademoiselle de Sauveterre. She had stopped shuddering, yet she was not much improved otherwise. Since they had stopped, she had not even stirred once. For one day, she had seen enough excitement. There was no telling how she would react to any more of it.

But D'Artagnan was growing impatient. "Come on, Athos. We have come this far", he chimed into his unspoken concerns. "And, as it is, we can't let a defenseless young woman ride home without company."

He was referring to the maid. And he had a point. Grudgingly, Athos relented. "But if Mademoiselle breaks down, it will be your fault."

D'Artagnan eyed Mademoiselle's unmoving silhouette. "How could it get any worse than now?" he observed before nodding at their other female companion to take the lead.

As the maid moved forward, Athos joined in at her side. He beheld her, noticing her unease. No doubt, the firefight had rattled her as well. Nervously, she rode onward, her mount weaving through the trees. Or did she fear something else?

"You have not told us your mistress's name, yet", Athos stated, not in an unfriendly tone. "I assume she is Mademoiselle de Sauveterre's mother?"

"Yes, she is", the girl replied with a tense sigh. Her discomfort grew as she spoke. It was as though she dreaded to be shot for the information she was about to give.

"Who is she then?" Athos pried gently.

At first, he received no reply. But, after a nearly eternal pause, she willed herself to answer the question: "She is her grace, Princess Éloïse de Bourbon."

Athos froze on the spot. Abruptly, he stopped his horse. With an incredulous frown, he glanced at D'Artagnan. Startled into speechlessness, the young man stared back at him. None of them had expected this.

It sounded impossible. Yet Désirée de Sauveterre seemed to be far more than a priest's illegitimate child. If the maid's claims had any truth to them, she was a daughter of royal blood. This would change things, and not for the better...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A word on Princess Éloïse: I am modelling her after Éléonore de Bourbon-Condé, Princess of Orange. Since she is dead at this point in history, I was not entirely comfortable using her as-is and went with this solution instead. But her brother, Henri II de Condé, is still around and might show up in a later chapter. With him, Désirée would have quite the badass uncle... ;)
> 
> [Researching my way through French nobility took quite a while by the way. But it was well worth it. If you look closely enough, you will find some very interesting stories. After getting all dizzy over the twisted family relations that is... ]
> 
> And, despite the looks of it, D'Artagnan's relationship with Désirée is actually improving now. For once, the meeting with her mother is mainly happening thanks to him.  
> In the next chapter, the two of them will even get to share a grand moment together. Wait and see - =)


	10. Insensible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Désirée meets her mother but is not up for the encounter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a change, here is a rather short chapter. I hope it will please you though. The boys are doing some good work at minding poor Désirée in this one. ;)
> 
> Warning: I had to go without my amazing proofreader on this one, so please be lenient.

10\. Insensible

The sizable chateau ahead looked impressive. Its yellow, lime-washed walls glittered golden in the afternoon sun. As Porthos rode down the ample cobblestone path that led from the ornate main gate to the mansion itself, he whistled quietly. But his undisturbed moment of awe ended abruptly. Athos had just called his name. With a sense of urgency, Porthos drove forward his horse. Even though his friend had not sounded alarmed, intuition forced him to hurry. He felt that something was wrong.

"What is it?" he questioned with rising concern as he halted by his side.

Athos nodded at Désirée. She was in a sorry shape. Almost motionless, she sat on the horse. Her pallid face bore a stony expression. Yet she was not unconscious. Otherwise she would have long tumbled from the saddle. Instead she was tense, as though she was clinging on for dear life.

Porthos pitied her. He had seen the deadly musket ball bury itself into her friend Camille's neck. And he had seen her violent struggle as Athos had torn them apart, to spare her from a similar fate. But he had never expected Désirée to break down in such a frightful way.

"It is better if you take her", Athos said at last.

He had a point. The fact that they got along well was no secret. With a nod, Porthos dismounted. He wrapped his arms around Désirée and lifted her off his comrade's horse.

With great care, he set her feet on the cobbled ground. Almost instantly, her knees gave out. Like claws, Désirée's nails dug into his back, helplessly clinging on. She seemed agitated, almost panicked.

"Whoa." In hopes of calming her, Porthos ran a hand through her sleek, black hair. Once she had relaxed a little, he reached over his shoulder. One by one, he unpicked her fingers. It was hard work. Despite her momentary frailty, her grip was strong enough to hurt him. But at last, he took hold of her hands.

"Let us try that again", he gave them a gentle squeeze. Very slowly, he guided her away from the horses. For a moment, it felt as though he was holding on to a falling dead weight. Then she won the battle against her unsteady legs and walked. As she moved forward, the ice in her demeanour began to melt. For the first time, Désirée looked up at Porthos's face. Full of confusion, she blinked at him.

"Where?" she breathed.

"You are safe here", Porthos responded, not able to think of anything better to say. Except for some vague suspicions, he knew nothing of this place. And, in her volatile condition, it was more than unwise to raise false hopes. Slowly Désirée nodded. He watched how her mind worked, taking in his words, thinking hard. She half-closed her eyes, struggling to phrase another question. He dreaded it.

"Is she..." She paused. Her lips quivered as she fought to utter the word, "...dead?"

Porthos sighed. "Yes, I'm afraid she is."

There was a gasp, followed by a violent outburst of tears. Désirée's whole body heaved. She was struggling for air and battling for countenance at the same time. Both failed to come.

Porthos reacted quickly. He pulled her closer, hugging her as tightly as he dared. "Shh", he rubbed her shoulders in slow, circling motions. But her relentless weeping would not ease.

Without loosening his grip, he went on walking towards the mansion. She had to settle down. Otherwise her crying would never end.

By the main entrance, Porthos ran into the young maid who had ridden with Désirée's friend. D'Artagnan was with her.

When the girl's gaze fell upon Désirée, she blanched. "Is she hurt?"

He shook his head with the trace of a reassuring smile. "I don't think so. But she could use some rest."

"Of course." Still upset, she beckoned him inside, "This way."

As Porthos followed her into the house, D'Artagnan fell in by his side. His face bore a strangely thoughtful expression. Something was bothering the young man.

"So, what else is new?" Porthos asked in a low voice.

"Nothing much… Except for the fact that Mademoiselle seems to be of royal blood", his comrade replied, sounding rather ironical.

"She... what?" Porthos stopped dead. Very obviously, D'Artagnan was not joking.

As he glanced at the sobbing bundle clinging on to him, a cold shower of foreboding crept down Porthos's spine. By now, he knew Désirée rather well. Once she was lucid enough to comprehend this news, they would upset her greatly, incalculably.

With a sigh of tense anticipation, Porthos followed the maid into a vast sitting room. Once he had eased Désirée down to one of the lavish, silk-covered sofas, her body sank heavily against his. Even though she seemed too weak to cry, there was still no end to her tears.

Porthos ran a finger across her soaking wet face. "Camille would not want you to weep", he said softly.

Désirée turned her head. Her expression betrayed no emotion, yet lesser tears flowed from her reddened eyes. "You are right", she whispered, "but..."

"But what?" in a try to reassure her, he pulled her closer.

"Her death... It was so cruel... so horrid", abruptly she held on. Within seconds, her amber eyes clouded over with memories. She was reliving the horror.

Quickly, Porthos grasped her arm. "Don't go there." She did not react. "Please, it will only hurt you more." Gently, he cupped his hands around her cheeks. Reason was failing to reach her. Sighing he turned to the alternative: Tentatively, he leaned forward and kissed her.

After a moment, Désirée stirred. Instead of pulling away, she returned the kiss. Shyly, her tremulous lips touched his. Yet their gentle, clumsy press was not without affection. After a seemingly endless moment, she let go. By now, her eyes had cleared again. His plan had worked out.

When he looked around, Porthos realized that they had attracted an audience: Both Athos and D'Artagnan stood in front of the sofa, arms folded and frowning. Before any of them spoke, Porthos justified his act of boldness with a shrug. They accepted it mutely.

Right now, he was glad Aramis had stayed outside, guarding their prisoners. He would not have kept as silent. And, Porthos was in no mood to suffer any of his friend's insinuating comments. The situation was messy enough without them.

xx

Désirée had never been asleep. But now, it felt as though she was woken from a fitful slumber. The sensation of Porthos's kiss made her lips tingle. She had never been kissed on the mouth before. It startled her enough to return to her senses. A part of her wanted to force the intruder away, yet her affection for him was stronger. For another moment, she welcomed his embrace, but then she pulled away.

Nervously, her eyes darted about the room. Where was she? Nobody had told her anything, only that she was in a safe place. She had no reason to doubt that assurance, yet unease gnawed at her. The sitting room around her was grand and lavish. Gilt floral wallpapers adorned the walls, complemented by thick, expensively woven rugs covering the polished hardwood floor. The sofas and upholstered benches around her were covered in fine blue-green silk.

Désirée was lost amidst the finery. It felt cold and soulless; enough to make her shudder. Just as her unease became hard to bear, someone grasped her hand. Startled, she looked around. It was Athos. He was crouching in front of her, frowning.

"Are you feeling better?" he asked with an unusual softness to his tone.

"I... I am not sure." She faltered, gazing from him to Porthos and back. "What is going on?"

Both of them seemed concerned about her frail state, and hesitant to answer the question. After half an eternity, Athos finally took heart: "This is your mother's estate. Her maid took us here, hoping you might be willing to meet her", he said. Athos's words sounded calm, yet he struggled to hide his apprehension of her answer.

But Désirée had none. There were only more questions. "My mother?" she brought out, overcome by hapless perplexity. "Who is she? And why...?"

Suddenly, the appearance of a newcomer interrupted the disorderly stream of her thoughts. It was a woman, clad in the elegant robes of a highborn lady. She hung back, watching from a safe distance. The sky blue brocade of her dress seemed to fade into the background of the large room, blending in with the painted silk wallpaper.

Instead of her, Evangeline, Camille's companion approached them. Almost timidly, the young maid addressed her.

"Her ladyship asks if you are ready for her."

Désirée bit her lip. A sudden craving to see the woman she had not known, and yet missed, all her life took hold of her. But she refused to give heed to it. In her head, she still felt shocked and confused, afraid to be disappointed. It was all too much for her exhausted body and her raging mind.

"I'm not sure", she murmured, returning her attention to Athos. He had not strayed and was still holding her hand. "Please talk to her. Tell her I need some time", Désirée told him.

Wordlessly, Athos nodded. He rose to his feet and turned towards the lady at the far end of the room. As he walked away, she noticed that D'Artagnan had been hovering in his wake all along. Now the young man made to join him, but Désirée would not allow it. She reached for his arm, stopping him. Right now, she needed another hand to hold. And his would have to do. Full of surprise, he looked at her. But, before a single word of protest left his mouth, she pulled him down onto the sofa.

"What the hell am I doing?" she muttered, more to herself, than to anyone else.

But D'Artagnan reacted nonetheless. "If you ask me, you are being an idiot right now."

She gawped at him, balling her hand into a fist, ready to strike. Yet she curbed the impulse, for now. "Go on", she said, narrowing her eyes in a gesture of warning.

"You're working yourself into a needless frenzy. If I were you, I'd get this over with. You really have nothing to lose."

Désirée's jaw dropped. The young man's words felt cruel, completely disregarding the horrible things she had seen not two hours ago. She had never unclenched her fist. Now it buried itself in his side, but without force. His opinion stung, yet he was right.

"Hey", he picked up her hand, holding on to it. "Constance would have punched me a lot harder right now."

Very quietly, Désirée snorted. "I am not your lover."

"And I am glad of it", D'Artagnan smiled a little, "even though you demand just as much attention."

Désirée wanted to contradict, but her chance was stolen away. At once, Evangeline reappeared. She was carrying a cloth and a jug of water.

"Mademoiselle, allow me to wash the blood off your face", she said.

What blood? Désirée stared at the girl. Bewildered she raised a hand to her face. And suddenly, she remembered. It was Camille's blood.

"No", she snapped, harsh enough to make Evangeline jump. She was not ready to part with the dried-up stains. They were the last thing that remained of her friend.

Yet nobody seemed to understand that. With an apologetic sigh, D'Artagnan took the cloth from Evangeline's shaking hand.

"Now you are doing it again", he observed quietly.

"Doing what?" Désirée retorted, unsure of his meaning.

"Pleading for attention", he replied. "And now stop fussing."

He left her no room for protest and scrubbed at the caked blood on her cheek.

"You stop fussing..." Désirée murmured, defeated.

Nervously, her gaze travelled towards Athos. He was still talking to the woman, out of earshot. As he finally turned around, Désirée pushed away D'Artagnan's hand and nodded. She was ready.

When the lady approached, she shivered. Almost immediately, she felt D'Artagnan grasp her hand and Porthos rub her back. Their presence reassured her a little; enough for her to venture taking a closer look at the stranger.

She was tall and pale, carrying herself with erect poise and grace. Judging from her looks, she had to be well over forty. Yet only the shock of light, greying hair she wore high on top of her head betrayed the fact. Her station was much easier to pinpoint than her maturity of years. The pastel blue dress she wore was of lavish silk brocade, decked out with ornate golden embroidery. The pearls and jewels on her ears and around her neck added to the finery even more. No doubt, she was a very wealthy and noble lady.

"Who are you, Madame?" Désirée asked in a soft tone, made shaky by insecurity. The looks on her friends' faces told her about the needless of her question.

Yet she received an answer. The older woman stopped right in front of Désirée, stooping a little so they were at eye level. "I am Princess Éloïse de Bourbon Condé and, as it happens, also your mother", she said, in a gentle but firm voice.

Désirée had no idea how to respond. The reality of these words had struck her hard, like a violent slap to the face. This woman was her mother... and a Bourbon.

This meant her mother was not simply a member of the nobility. She was a princess of the royal line. It was no wonder Richelieu had blackmailed her father into silence. Otherwise, the news of her birth alone would have sufficed to cause a great scandal.

"So I am a royal bastard", Désirée said, struggling to accept her own words. They felt wrong, painful. "Is that why people keep trying to kill me?"

The princess sighed. Surely, she had expected some sign of affection. But, right now, Désirée had none to spare. Her heart felt as cold and hard as a rock, frozen under countless layers of ice.

"All I know about the assassins is that they have nothing to do with your father. The only enemies he had were within the church. Mine, however, are not", she responded at last. "There are several reasons why they might seek to harm you. But do you really want to use our first encounter to speculate?"

"No, of course not. My apologies... Madame." There was no way she could call this woman mother. Yet she held out a cold, shaky hand, allowing her to take it.

"Madame... Oh, Désirée, I can understand how you must hate me." Cautiously, she grasped the proffered hand. "After all, I was never there for you. But nobody left me a choice."

"I do not hate you", Désirée contested. Surely, her mother had not abandoned her out of her own free will. Yet, no matter how it had been, she did not wish to hear it. Her mind was still racing madly from the battle. She did not know how to feel. Fury, agony, sadness and joy fought a ferocious war within her head, tearing her mind to shreds. It was too much. The sudden urge to run away gripped her. "I cannot do this..." she murmured, pulling her hand away. "Forgive me."

Very abruptly, Désirée stood. "I want to leave."

A look of horror appeared on her mother's face. "But why...?"

Her incomprehension sparked sudden anger. "My friend lost her life today, because of me, taking a shot intended to end my life. And now you expect me to happily embrace you as though nothing has ever happened? You cannot be serious."

Startled, the princess shrank away from her. The words hit home like a whiplash. Her mouth opened and closed haplessly but no words came out.

Désirée felt Athos's stare upon her. Guilt flushed her face. Momentarily, her perturbed feelings had overtaken her. Very slowly, she nodded at him, acknowledging the fact.

When he took charge, Désirée was almost grateful. "You must forgive her, your grace. She is still confused from the attack", firmly, his hand closed around her wrist. His remark stung. Yet it was perfectly accurate. She had no idea what she was doing. "I suggest we postpone this meeting."

Her mother nodded. "Perhaps it is for the best", there was a trace of sadness in her voice. "Yet she is free to stay at the chateau. It might be safer."

"No..." Désirée gasped very quietly, so that only Athos could hear. Being stranded here, in a vast, strange place full of coldness was the last thing she wanted now.

"Her suggestion is not without reason", he whispered back. "But I will not force you."

She thought for a moment, glad he had left the decision in her hands. "I'd rather stay with you."

"If that is what you want…" he muttered before turning back to her mother. "Thank you for your hospitality, but for now, we will return to Paris."

"As you wish", Princess Éloïse nodded. The glance she passed Désirée was pained and reproachful. It provoked a minute pang of guilt. But, after today's horrors, it was not powerful enough to faze her.

Yet, Désirée mustered the courtesy to bid her farewell. "Given time, we shall meet again... mother."

It was the first time she had uttered the word. And it did not fail its effect. A tiny smile of gratitude flitted across the older woman's face. "I would be most glad of it", graciously, she stood, "and, as my daughter, you will always be welcome here."

"Thank you", Désirée murmured weakly. Exhaustion was finally catching up with her now. She felt ready to faint. But Athos's steady grip spared her the embarrassment. Relieved, she allowed him to usher her out of the room, leaning against his shoulder. It was due time to leave for Paris. Very soon, even his strength would not suffice to hold her upright anymore.

By the time they reached the horses in the chateau's courtyard, Désirée found herself drifting off into the realm of dreams. From one moment to the next, nothing seemed real anymore. Perhaps she had even dreamed the encounter with the princess. How could she ever be her mother? The thought felt as surreal as the pair of arms lifting her up into the saddle. They were the last thing she perceived, before sleep doused everything in welcome oblivion.


	11. Of Fighters And Cowards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new development rattles everyone and leads to an unexpected decision...

11\. Of Fighters And Cowards

"I wished she would do that more often", Porthos remarked as he jogged down the stairs.

His comment made Aramis smirk. "What? Not objecting to each and every thing one says?" he quipped as he moved over on the bench, vacating a spot for his friend.

"No, just sleep." As he sat, Porthos snatched the piece of baguette from his grasp. "She has been quite a handful today."

With his, now free, hand, Aramis patted his friend's shoulder. "Well, it is not easy for her at present."

"But then, she does not seem to want it that way." D'Artagnan chimed in. He sat opposite them, listlessly stirring around in a bowl of broth. "She could have had a happy ending today, but she chose to be difficult again."

It was obvious, how much her volatile behaviour at the chateau had irked him. Aramis had been in the courtyard at the time, guarding their prisoners. So he had not witnessed it unfold first hand, but the tales spoke for themselves. Yet he could find no blame in her reaction. Escaping death by mere inches was enough to cause a shock. The sudden introduction to a parent she had never known had added further kindling to a fire that was already blazing. It was little wonder Désirée had lost herself in the rising flames of her emotion.

"There are no happy endings for her", Athos observed without looking up from his dinner. He had not said much since their return to Paris. Clearly, he was brooding.

"How do you mean?" Porthos frowned at him, passing a concerned glance across the table.

But Aramis knew his meaning exactly. Even if Désirée chose to accept her mother, her life would prove very difficult. Especially if they failed to expose her enemies for much longer...  
"Her family is of old nobility. She was simply not born to this life." He paused, pondering. Now that he had broached the subject, he recalled a thought that had troubled him earlier, while waiting in the chateau's gardens. "I fear she might fail to adjust."

"Wasn't her father highborn, too?" D'Artagnan offered thoughtfully.

Porthos rolled his eyes. "He was a priest, remember?"

"As though priests don't act like nobles sometimes", their young comrade muttered. "They seem to enjoy the pretense."

The whole idea made Aramis snort. "Certainly not her father. Otherwise he would not have chosen to become Jesuit. They pretend to be soldiers instead."

"No wonder she clings to us then", Porthos retorted with a sigh. He knew it could not go on forever. Eventually, their protection of her would end; perhaps sooner than they wanted to.

"The question is how we wean her of us", Athos said. Oddly, the thought appeared to trouble him. A few days ago, he would have welcomed to see her gone.

Aramis raised a brow. "I would suggest reason. Or you could just slap her again. She might enjoy it."

His friend scowled. It was hard to tell whether he did so in seriousness or jest. "Or I could kick you instead. She would like that even better."

At that, Porthos cleared his throat, obviously suppressing a laugh. "Speaking of which, I'd better take her some dinner."

He scooped up a bowl of soup and stood, grabbing a piece of bread with his free hand.

"Be careful it does not end up in your face", D'Artagnan retorted with a thin-lipped smile.

"Rather that than breaking today's news to the captain", he replied, sounding less cheerful than before. "I don't want to see his face when he hears of the whole mess."

And he was not alone with that. Treville had not returned from his duties at the palace, yet. But once he did, they had to inform him of Madame Dufort's death, and the identity of Désirée's lady mother. Aramis had a dark feeling that none of it would go down well. At least Désirée was unharmed. But her protection kept on dragging them deeper and deeper into the quicksands of a dangerous intrigue. None of them liked this turn of events, and the captain would dislike it even more.

xx

Drowsily, she dragged herself out from underneath the leaden weight of sleep. At least it had been dreamless this time, and no old ghosts had come to haunt her. With care, Désirée pulled up her legs, hugging them against her chest for comfort. Deep down, she was aching. But it was not the soreness of riding, or the hurting of her wound. This pain was different, invisible. It was snagging at her heart-strings and she was afraid to lose herself in it...

Before she had any chance to wonder about the origins of her inner agony, the door opened a crack and Porthos slipped inside.

"Hello", he said cautiously, "may I come in?"

"Please", Désirée breathed a sigh of relief. His arrival ended her loneliness and she was glad of it. She did not want to be alone with her thoughts and feelings now.

"How are you?" he inquired as he drew up the sole chair in the small room, balancing the bowl of soup he had brought on his lap.

"Don't ask", Désirée replied wryly. "How long did I sleep?"

"Not too long", Porthos shrugged. "Maybe four, five hours."

She frowned. "And what happened before... I have not dreamt it, have I?"

"I'm afraid not...", sighing, Porthos shook his head. His reluctance to speak of it was obvious. "On a brighter note, I think you should eat a little something."

It did not feel any brighter to her. The idea provoked her to chuckle ironically. "No."

Porthos groaned at her refusal. "What if I insist?"

"Then you insist on a fight as well", she narrowed her eyes and, surprisingly, he let off.

"More for me then", he retorted. Pretending to ignore her, he began spooning the soup.

It was a mean trick. Mere moments later, Désirée noticed the void in the pit of her stomach. It was gnawing at her with unexpected fierceness. Grudgingly she had to admit defeat.

"Fine", she said meakly, giving in.

Her reaction made Porthos smirk more than a bit. "Now that's better", he dipped the spoon back into the broth and held it out in an offer to feed her.

Despite herself, Désirée did not mind. She was even enjoying his care, enough to finish the entire bowl.

"There's a good girl", Porthos stated, looking no less surprised than she felt about it.

"I'll give you a good girl", she muttered. All of a sudden, a strange sense of affection washed over her. Before she knew what she was doing, Désirée bent forward and kissed him.

After humouring her wiles for a moment, Porthos pulled away. "An interesting choice of dessert", he observed, looking amused. "How about something more edible though?" He passed her a chunk of bread.

"If I must", Désirée replied as she put a small piece into her mouth. Secretly, she was more than glad to humour him. After all he had done for her today, she owed him a great debt. "I'm sorry about earlier", she stated after a long, thoughtful pause. "I should not have worried you so..."

But Porthos waved away her concerns. "Don't mention it; you had your reasons. But it feels much better to see you well and happy."

"You know what would make me happy right now?" Désirée inquired tentatively.

Porthos raised a brow. "What?" There was something shrewd about the look he passed her. But it did not deter her in the slightest.

"A hug?" she offered, patting the spot beside her on the mattress.

Clearly, he had expected something different. Now his face lit up in a mix of surprise and pleasure. "I had no idea you liked hugs", he said before moving over onto the bed.

"Only from you", Désirée smiled a little, as she allowed him to loop his arm around her. "And I did not know you were the kissing type."

Porthos chuckled. "Could it be you are flirting with me?"

"What's flirting?" Désirée frowned as she settled her cold body against the comforting warmth of his.

"You really don't know?" he sounded incredulous.

"How should I?" she muttered. "I grew up with priests..."

Porthos ran a hand through her hair, gently playing with a flying strand. "Only because they are priests, it doesn't mean they know nothing of love."

Désirée moaned, wondering whether he realized what he had just said. "And today you saw what comes of it: A blood sin, destroying lives..."

"Nonsense", he stopped stroking her head and kissed it instead. "None of this falls back on you. You never chose to be born into these circumstances. Nobody has the right to blame you."

"Right and reality are two things", helplessly she swatted at a tear that had found its way into her eye.

Porthos did not accept the notion. "Not as long as you have me. I won't allow it."

Instead of answering, Désirée turned around. Slowly she leaned her head against his shoulder. His assurance had given her a brief sensation of comfort. But still, it could not stop her from crying. Ashamed of her confused, weakened self, she hid her face from him, shedding the tears into his shirt.

"You are making a habit of this", he said mildly as his hands came to rest against her heaving back. They were as warm as the rest of him, warm enough to slowly lull her exhausted body back to sleep. And Désirée embraced it. For the first time since Camille's death, she felt truly safe. Without her noticing it, the pain she had felt mere moments ago, had blown away.

xx

Treville had been sitting with her for over half an hour now. Athos knew what they were discussing and he was glad the captain had taken the matter upon himself. Someone had to tell her that they could not continue her protection forever. Yet the decision on how to go on with it rested with her alone.

There was no telling how she took the news. In opposition to her usual outbursts, her features appeared calm, almost stoic. He wondered whether this was a good or a bad sign...

After another few minutes of talking, the captain finally got up from the bench. As he had vanished back inside the building, she took her sword off the nearby table and started honing its blade. Still, the impression on her face remained unchanged.

Slowly, Athos ventured closer. When he stopped a few inches from her face, she gazed up. Her eyes bore an indifferent expression, blended with what he took for mild annoyance. Without awaiting an invitation, he sat. From inside his jacket, he withdrew Father Martin's letter. Wordlessly, he held it out to her. It seemed easier than to talk about it first.

With an air of surprise, she took the parchment from him. After putting the sword into her lap, she broke the seal, without ever looking up again. As she read through the dense lines of immaculate handwriting, her fingers clenched around the page's yellowed edges.

When she was finished, her face had changed. Relief was written all over her features now. For the first time she gazed at him for longer than a split second. "You got this from Father Martin?"

It was no real question, but Athos nodded nevertheless. "What does it say?" Usually, he abhorred curiosity, but still, it forced itself on him now.

"Only that Éloïse de Bourbon really is my mother, that he is sorry he could never tell me in person..." a sudden, affectionate smile formed on her lips, "and that I better not cry now, for he will know, no matter if he went to heaven or hell."

Carefully, she turned over the letter so that a small, golden necklace slipped into her palm. With eyes half-closed, she held it against the morning light. The star-shaped pendant at its end glittered in the sun.

"Would you mind giving me a hand?" she pressed the necklace into his hand and pushed up her dark hair.

Carefully, Athos looped it around her neck. "What is it?"

"A sunburst", she replied quietly. "He gave one to my mother as well. If you ask Aramis, I am sure he can tell you all about its meaning."

"Does this imply you are willing to see your mother again?" Athos inquired cautiously.

"I am not sure, yet, Give me time to think about it." Mademoiselle kept her face turned away from him. As she picked her blade back up, uncomfortable silence fell between them.

Athos could have left her to her own devices now. But it felt wrong. So he stayed, watching her work. With great diligence, she sharpened the sword's edges until they were perfectly even. Afterwards she polished the weapon; scrubbing at it with an oiled cloth so that not a single dull spot remained.

Her devotion to the blade surprised Athos. Even though he had seen her use it before, he had believed it was nothing but her toy, a cherished keepsake by which to remember her father. Now he saw that it meant the same to her as did his rapier to him. It gave him an idea to distract her from the present concerns; at least for a little while.

"When you asked me if I could teach you how to fence, did you mean it?" he questioned.

"Of course", she turned back around. "In China, I practiced every day. Yet now, I am afraid to lose my skills."

"I understand." She had indeed been very serious about her intentions.

At once, Mademoiselle snorted. "Admit it, you thought I considered sword fighting a game."

"Not anymore", Athos admitted truthfully. "Although your sword looks like a plaything from afar."

Amused, she held out the weapon to him, hilt first. "Here, try it."

After a brief spell of hesitation, he grasped it, gauging its weight and balance. "It is very light", he observed, turning it over.

"And perfectly suited for its purpose", she retorted. "May I hold yours?"

With a nod, he stood and drew his rapier. "But don't cut yourself."

Mademoiselle rolled her eyes. When she took the sword in hand, she frowned. "Heavier than I thought and rather clumsy..."

"That is because it's too long for you."

Almost startled, she spun around towards the one who had spoken. It was D'Artagnan. He had entered the garrison yard a few moments ago. Now he was leaning against the balustrade, watching them. "At your height, you'd be better off with a child's rapier."

The remark caused Athos to scowl ay the young man. He was not wrong, but there were other ways of putting it.

D'Artagnan got the message. "Perhaps we could check the armoury for something more suitable..." he muttered, struggling to improve his lacking courtesy.

"We could", Athos said, nodding into the respective direction.

Surprised, the young man gawped at him. Clearly he had not expected this change of mind. But Athos merely raised a brow to confirm his intentions. It was enough to send his comrade scampering upstairs.

A moment later, he returned with a shorter blade. "This should be better."

Now it was Mademoiselle's turn to gape. "You are serious then?"

"If you are", Athos shrugged.

After a moment's hesitation, she returned Athos's blade to tentatively accept the rapier from D'Artagnan.

"And you are going to want these, too", D'Artagnan added, producing a pair of brown kid gloves.

"Thank you..." Mademoiselle murmured. She was becoming more dumbfounded with every passing moment.

She put on the gloves, carefully holding on to the rapier with both hands, as though it was a frail piece of crystal, about to shatter any second. Gently, Athos nudged her left away from the hilt and closed his right over hers, to show her the proper way of handling the sword. Mademoiselle nodded. She moved the blade through the air a few times, to get a better feeling for its balance. Clearly, she knew what she was doing with the weapon. Yet her motions looked somewhat stiff.

"Shall we?" Athos inquired after slightly adjusting the bend of her elbow with his thumb.

"Absolutely", Mademoiselle smiled. It was an unusual sight. He did not recall when, or if, he had seen her do it before.

xx

When Constance walked into the garrison, a throng of men blocked her way. Not sure what was happening, she slipped through the crowd. As she drew closer to the front, she picked up the sound of sword fighting. Then she spotted D'Artagnan. He was standing close to the centre of the small gathering, flanked by Aramis and Porthos. Like everyone else, they were intent on the happenings in the middle of the yard.

Once Constance had joined them, she ventured to look into the same direction. What she saw made her jaw drop: Mademoiselle de Sauveterre was sparring with Athos. And it looked as though she was enjoying herself. "Is she really...?" she muttered.

"Quite so", Aramis replied with a little smirk.

Still incredulous, Constance went on. "And is Athos..."

Of course, D'Artagnan had shown her how to handle a sword as well. But it had happened in secret and had felt like a game between close friends. But Athos did not seem the type to teach a woman how to fence; especially not in front of such a large audience.

"Yes", Porthos said. "He's full of surprises. But then Désirée is no novice to this business, either."

"She is not?" Constance creased her brow. She did not have the faintest idea about this young lady's fighting skills. On the other hand, she had never ceased to strike her as weird, in many respects. Her, seemingly effortless, handling of a blade was no exception. As Constance looked closer, she began to wonder whether her own shaky attempts with a rapier would ever reach this level of grace. "Where did she learn that?"

"China, I guess", D'Artagnan responded, scowling. "And now can we please be quiet and watch the spectacle?"

And a spectacle it was indeed. Swiftly, Mademoiselle parried Athos's blows, locking blades with him as often as she could. Her attempts to attack were just as fast, but she rarely landed a direct hit. Athos was still the more experienced swordsman, and the best duel fighter in the regiment at that. Yet Mademoiselle was moving with ease and grace. Sometimes it even seemed as though she was dancing.

"What is she doing with her rear?" Aramis inquired at once, shaking Constance from her thoughts.

"The same thing she does when fighting with her other sword", Porthos replied.

"It looks very funny", his friend stated.

And, apparently, Athos thought so, too. He stopped to frown at Mademoiselle. After a moment, he approached her. Hesitantly, he put his hands against her hips and pushed out her back leg a little. Even though his sparring partner did not mind, his move provoked a few quiet whistles among his fellow Musketeers.

When they resumed the fight, the hooting turned into cheers and appreciative applause. Mademoiselle had just scored her first proper hit.

"Now she's got it", D'Artagnan commented.

Constance sighed wistfully. "I wished I could fight like her."

In a try to console her, he rubbed her back. "Give it a few years and you will, I'm sure."

"Right..." she murmured. His words felt half-hearted. They both knew it was never going to happen.

Suddenly, the sound of hoof beats made her look away from D'Artagnan, towards the gate. From one moment to another, the onlookers dispersed. A woman had just ridden through the garrison gates. She was trembling and panting as though she had been on the run from a pack of hellhounds.

The hood of her elegant silk cloak half hid a fresh, deep purple bruise on her cheek.

"What is she doing here?" D'Artagnan questioned. He sounded greatly surprised. Quickly he moved towards the intruder, helping her down from the saddle. She was so exhausted from the ride that she nearly collapsed into his arms.

Meanwhile, Athos and Mademoiselle de Sauveterre had stopped their fight. Now Athos was walking towards the newcomer as well, while Mademoiselle stood transfixed, staring at her.

Instinctively, Constance went to the young woman and grasped her hand. She saw that Captain Treville had left his perch on the gallery and was headed their way. As he came closer, Mademoiselle gazed at him full of confusion. "Who is she?"

"Madame de Courtenay, Captain Blaise's sister", he stated curtly before moving on.

As Treville approached the unexpected visitor, she followed in his wake, dragging Constance with her.

"What happened?" the captain asked cautiously, after he had granted the lady a moment to catch her breath.

When she finally managed to answer, Madame de Courtenay was still fighting for air. "I know who the assassins are..."

"What?" Mademoiselle's body tensed. She seemed ready to jump at the other woman's throat. Constance had to muster a good deal of strength to hold her back.

It was her luck that Treville intervened. "You will wait upstairs." It was no polite invitation. But the young woman refused to budge.

"Come on", Constance coaxed her in a more gentle tone. "Let them handle it."

Still nothing happened; until Porthos took her other arm. "Désirée, please..."

She turned to stare at him for a moment. Then she pulled herself free and walked upstairs without another word.

Porthos made to go after her, but Constance shook her head. "Let me. I have some things to take upstairs anyway..."

"Fine", he consented with a grudging frown. His concern for Mademoiselle was very obvious. But there was more to it. To see her upset seemed to break his heart. Constance knew a deeply affectionate look when she saw one. Porthos was in love with the young woman.

xx

Désirée was holding Madame Bonacieux's hand even though she had no wish for company. But there was no room for solitude now. Captain Treville's office was bustling with people. All four of her Musketeer friends were here with her and Blaise's sister. Yet they kept their distance.

They probably thought she was on the brink of losing her nerves again. But that was not the case. Désirée was too shocked to feel anything. Madame de Courtenay's brother had died for her. As they had just learned, it had happened at the hands of his own extended family. This unfathomable piece of news was hard to take in. And not only for her; their unexpected guest seemed to be no less overcome by it.

While Aramis tended to the swollen cut on her face, she kept sobbing uncontrollably. D'Artagnan was crouching in front of her. In a nearly desperate attempt to calm her, he held on tightly to both of her hands. "Just tell us what happened on the way here", he told her calmly.

After a nearly endless silence, filled only with the sound of her crying, Madame de Courtenay finally took heart. "My husband has been behaving strangely. We have only been married for two months, but still, I could tell the difference." Shakily, she paused to wipe at the tears running down her cheek. "And this morning, I went after him when he left the house. I sneaked after him to a deserted cottage in the forest. There he met a stranger and I overheard their talk. He paid him money to arrange Mademoiselle de Sauveterre's death. Then they discovered me and..."

"And he struck you down?" Aramis suggested.

"Yes", she was trembling visibly at the memory. "But I picked myself up and ran. They both went after me but did not dare to follow me here."

"But why would he want Mademoiselle killed?" D'Artagnan asked with a deepening frown.

She shook her head. "I would not know. But he spoke of taking what is rightfully his. Something about reclaiming Bourbon lands..."

Her last words caught Treville's attention. At once he seemed very alert. "I should have thought of this before. The de Courtenays have an old claim on the lands gifted to Princess Éloïse. If she dies without an heir, her tenements will fall back to them."

This made no sense. Désirée beheld the captain through half-closed eyes, thinking. "How would this man know my mother's true identity? And how did he learn of my return to France?"

Treville shook his head. He was no wiser than she herself. "We will have to ask him." With an air of finality, he stood, turning to Athos. "Find him, before he can get away."

It was the only logical step. Madame de Courtenay could only tell them very little. They had to find her husband, as fast as humanly possible. He was the key to ending the attempts on her life.

As the Musketeers filed out of the office to get underway, Désirée's eyes fell on their visitor. She was crying again, much worse than before. Almost desperately, she clutched Aramis's arm, as though she would perish the second he left her side.

Désirée felt great pity for her. Not a week ago, the other woman had lost someone very close to her heart. And now she was faced with an abysmal void, threatening to swallow everything she still had left. Désirée had felt the same after her father's death; when they had beaten her and chased her off like a rabid dog. Without a second thought, she was on her feet, walking over to Blaise's sister. Very gently, she unclenched her tremulous fingers from around Aramis's arm. "Go", she told him in a low voice.

He beheld her with an air of genuine surprise. "Will you be all right?"

Désirée nodded. "We will manage."

With care, she wrapped her arms around Madame de Courtenay. "Don't cry, it does not help", she said softly, caressing her hunched back with gentle circles of her palm.

"What else am I to do?" she sobbed. Her chest was heaving tremulously against Désirée's body. "I will lose everything and I have not a soul left in this world..."

"That's not true." Désirée tightened her embrace. "You have me. We have both lost someone we cherished. But, don't worry. I will look out for you now."

But Madame de Courtenay was still crying bitterly. With a sigh, Désirée pulled her head against her shoulder, gently patting her curly auburn hair. "Your brother would not want your tears. He was a hero. I have been praying for his soul every day, since he so valiantly saved my life", she whispered into her ear.

Gradually, the other woman's sobbing began to subside. She roused herself to look up at Désirée. "Have you really?" she breathed. The thought seemed to amaze her.

"Of course", Désirée told her reassuringly. "A man like him should go straight to heaven."

The other woman frowned. Her lip was quivering as the tears forced their way back into her eyes. "At least his soul has somewhere to go... but what about me?"

"You can stay here", she took her hands and looked up at Treville. "I will not need my room for much longer."

Madame de Courtenay's desperation had finally opened her eyes. The refusal to acknowledge, or even see, her mother had been incredibly selfish and stupid. All this time, Désirée had ached for a place she belonged. Yet, after finally encountering it, she had cast it down like a spoilt child. A life at her lady mother's side might not be perfect. But it was paradisiacal, compared to the nothingness the woman in her arms was inevitably facing.

"You should rest now." Désirée looped an arm around her hips to help her stand. But Madame de Courtenay was so weakened from crying that she threatened to fall over. But Treville had already rushed over to support her other side. Together they managed to guide their shivering, exhausted load into Désirée's room.

When they had eased her onto the bed, the captain gazed at Désirée in a somewhat bemused manner.

"Are you certain this is what you want?" he inquired.

No doubt, her change of mind had come unexpectedly. Yet it was final. "Perhaps I am not. But I am more than ready to live with my choice."

"Fine then", the captain nodded. There was a glimmer of respect in his eyes. He would have offered her to stay longer, giving her all the time she needed to reach a decision. Despite of it, she had picked to take the road that was the hardest for her. "If you need anything in the meanwhile, please let me know."

"I will", Désirée replied, pressing his hand in true gratitude. "Thank you... for everything."

Treville shook his head. "There is no need for thanks. I merely did my duty."

With that, he briefly pressed her shoulder with his hand left. When he was gone, she sat down next to Madame de Courtenay who had curled up on the mattress now, staring ahead into emptiness.

Gingerly, Désirée rested a palm against her side. "And you have my gratitude as well. Had you not come here, I would still not value the chance bestowed upon me. Enough people have died for it already."

There was no answer. The other woman had just fallen asleep under her touch. It was just as well. She had suffered and cried enough, and so had Désirée. But soon, there would be an end to it… for them, and everyone else.

xx

It was odd de Courtenay had not followed his wife all the way. Either he had panicked and fled, or he was complacent enough to deem her a negligible threat to his plans. Porthos did not care which. All he wanted was to catch the crook and make him pay. He was not going to ruin another innocent life.

"Where to?" he questioned of Athos, ready to spur away into a chase.

"Where would you go if you had half an hour and a spent horse?" he asked in response.

"I'd try to hide somewhere nearby", D'Artagnan suggested after a moment's thought.

It made sense. Half an hour was not much time to run, especially not when you had already tired out your mount. But there was another option. "Either that, or I would head west", Porthos mused. De Courtenay's estate lay in that direction, as did the nearest port, in case he was panicked enough to board a ship.

"I'd do the same", Athos nodded. "Aramis, D'Artagnan, see if he is still inside the city. Porthos and I will ride towards Le Havre."

With a grim nod, Porthos dug his heels into his horse's flank. As they raced along the road, past the city gates, cobbles changed to packed dirt. Gradually, the horse's movements became easier and faster. At the same time, Porthos's anger rose to a hot fury. He thought about Désirée and what might happen to her if they failed to hunt down this man. But their chase was not hopeless. On this road, de Courtenay stood little chance of eloping. Athos knew it well, including every possible shortcut and hideout.

Suddenly his friend stopped in front of him and brought around his horse. "There. It looks like him", he said quietly, pointing at a fleeting shadow among the trees by the roadside. It looked very much like a rider, moving slowly through the thicket.

Porthos halted at Athos's side. "Shall we drive him out?" he asked, keeping his voice low.

Athos merely raised a brow. It was all the agreement they needed. Once he began to walk his stallion off the path, Porthos went the other way. In a wide sweep, he moved his stead through the thick underbrush, waiting for his friend to startle their target.

It did not take long. The mere shadow of Athos riding through the tree line was enough to make the rider urge his horse into a quick canter. But the forest kept him from speeding away. Porthos did not need to hurry. Almost at ease, he galloped alongside him, at a safe distance.

From the corner of his eye he saw Athos catching up to the escaping man. Pistol drawn, he ordered him to stop. But the scoundrel only quickened his pace. This was Porthos's moment. Quickly he spun around his mount, swooping towards the runner. Pistol flashing, he blocked the his path, forcing him to curb his horse.

"Going anywhere?" he inquired almost casually, as he beckoned for him to unmount with the barrel of his weapon.

Surprisingly, de Courtenay complied. But once his feet touched the ground, he thrust back his cloak. At lightning speed, his rapier left its sheath.

But Athos had anticipated this move. As the blade came out, he was already leaping from the saddle, his own sword in hand. From underneath, he sliced towards his attacker's arm. The blade's edge cut into the flesh at his wrist, drawing blood.

Full of surprise, his opponent dropped the rapier. He raised his hands above his head in surrender. But Athos was not done with him. With a kick into the thigh, he brought him to his knees, only to grab him and ram him face-first into the nearest tree trunk. Obviously Porthos was not the only one with a serious grudge against cowards who sent assassins after an innocent woman.

"What has Désirée de Sauveterre done to you?" Athos snapped at him.

Even though de Courtenay was in no position to show complacency, he did just that. "She took away my birthright", he growled through gritted teeth. After a moment, his lips parted to reveal a sneer. "And who wants a bastard to live at all?"

Porthos clenched his fists. Nobody insulted Désirée's honour in his presence. But, instead of hitting him, he pulled his dagger. His hands were too good for this abominable man. Handle first, he prodded the weapon into the small of his back. "A monster like you has no birthright. And now you will tell me who informed you about Mademoiselle's return or I'll gut you on the spot."

But de Courtenay merely laughed into his face. "It is of no concern to you, Musketeer."

"We decide what concerns us", Athos retorted, giving him another hard push against the tree. "Was it the cardinal?"

"No", de Courtenay gasped in agony. "Someone a lot closer to home..."

He said no more. Instead he began to struggle against Athos's grip, desperately trying to free himself. Once he so much as budged, Porthos finally gave heed to his reflexes. With a powerful punch to the face, he knocked him out. Seconds later, de Courtenay's unconscious body thudded against the forest's mossy ground. The sight caused an instant surge of gratification. He had enough of this despicable scumbag.

xx

"And you are sure you two will be all right without me?" Constance asked, making sure to ban the concern from her face. Madame de Courtenay was still resting upstairs, completely spent from her escape to the garrison. And it pained Constance to leave Désirée alone with her care. "If I could, I would keep my husband waiting…"

But the young woman seemed all right with it. This morning's events had changed her demeanour. She seemed more at ease, engulfed by an air of unusual calmness. "Don't worry about us", she replied with a reassuring smile. "Your husband seems in much greater need of coddling. But I cannot thank you enough for stopping by. Should you ever require help in handling Monsieur Bonacieux, you need only ask for it..."

"How do you mean?" Constance frowned. Mademoiselle's words seemed out of context. She had never met Bonacieux, yet it seemed as though she knew exactly what he was like.

"Your marriage does not seem very happy", Désirée observed with a fleeting look of pity. "In China, I knew some noble ladies whose husbands kept four or five wives and treated them all like chattel. When they spoke of the master, their expression was just as glum as yours just now."

The accuracy of her words stung. Constance sighed. "Perhaps you are right..."

"If I am, you may always get back to me", she offered. "I have some experience in dealing with such men."

"I..." Just as Constance was about to express her gratitude, the sound of horses walking into the garrison yard cut her off.

D'Artagnan and Aramis had returned, empty-handed. Their aspect sent a minute shudder through Désirée's body. But her composure remained unchanged. "Did he elope?" she inquired evenly, once Aramis had leapt from the saddle.

"Athos and Porthos have caught him", he replied with a nod towards the gates where the others were just arriving.

Their prisoner looked dazed, as though he had only recently woken from unconsciousness. With his had hung low, he walked behind them. His hands were bound and roped to Porthos's horse. His own riderless mount, a stout red dun, followed in the small group's wake.

Once Désirée had laid eyes on the man, Constance felt her tense up. From one moment to the next, she raced across the yard. Unforeseen, her elbow connected with the captive's face. The blow's force snapped his head sideways. A small trickle of blood spurted from the corner of his mouth, but he remained on his feet.

Désirée was panting visible, more from rage than exertion. "That was for Camille. And this is for your wife", she growled. At the same moment her foot lashed out. With a powerful kick, it buried itself in the pit of his stomach. Groaning, de Courtenay sank to the ground and doubled over. His eyes betrayed great surprise and excruciating pain at once. But she was not finished with him. Again, the tip of her boot connected with his midriff. It sent another shudder through the fallen man's body.

"Désirée, no..."

At the far end of the scene, Aramis was the first to shake off his momentary stupor. As fast as he could, he raced forward. He grabbed Désirée's shoulders and dragged her away from the writhing figure at her feet. But she refused to snap out of her frenzy. At lightning speed, she spun around to struggle against his grip. But Aramis was quicker and stronger. He took a firm hold of both her wrists and pulled her with him, halfway across the yard. When he finally let go, her hands were still balled into tight fists. More gently now, he set out to unclench them with his fingers.

"You have every right to hate him", he told her patiently, pretending to ignore the feral glare she passed him. "But we need him alive."

"I was not about to kill him", Désirée replied in a low, toneless voice. Still, her glare seemed to burn right through him.

With great caution, Aramis ran a fingertip over a flying stand of her black hair. "Whatever happened to love thy enemy?" he questioned.

In a fresh onrush of fury, the young woman slapped his hand away. "He is not my enemy. He is a monster", she snapped.

"Yet answering his actions with violence makes you no better than him", Aramis replied with unusual sharpness. "I would have expected better of you."

But, at last, his words hit home. Very slowly, Désirée stepped away from him. When Constance caught a glimpse of her face, it no longer betrayed anger. There was only great embarrassment now, enough to bring a crimson flush to her pale cheeks and to dull her bright brown eyes with tears of shame.

"I will atone for it", the young woman murmured as she rushed towards the stairs. "once this mess is over. And it will be over soon."

Her last statement made Aramis's brows knit up with concern. But he knew better than to follow Désirée in her current, unstable state of mind. Instead, his gaze found Constance. "What is she talking about?"

"She has decided to live with her mother", she replied, gazing after Désirée as she vanished into her room. "Perhaps it is for the best..."

"I doubt it", Aramis retorted with a shake of his head. "In her mother's world, nobody will tolerate her volatile moods. Especially not her anger…"

He had a point. After what she had just witnessed, Constance would not wish the young woman's wrath upon her worst enemies.

xx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter, you are now up to speed with the story publication on ff.net. From now on, the posting of new chapters might be a bit slower, since they are currently still in the making. =) The story is now in its final third though, so that you will not have to wait forever. ;)
> 
> There is some plot goodness yet to come your way, so I hope you will look forward to it.
> 
> xx


	12. Twisting Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Désirée sets out on a journey that is bound to change her life. And it will not be an easy one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the most recent chapter, opening the final stage of the story. From now on, I have to make do without my awesome beta reader, due to time constraints, but I hope you will enjoy reading what is to come nonetheless.   
> x

12\. Twisting Fate

"Why is everyone staring at me?" The question sounded piqued, to the point of tangible irritation. Désirée had asked it the moment she stepped into the garrison's kitchen. The grumpy expression on her face made it obvious that she was not about to add a polite 'good morning' to her inquiry.

Aramis sighed. The reason for his comrades' shrewd glances was obvious. Yet nobody felt courageous enough to point it out to the morose young woman: She looked as though she had spent a horrible night. Her clothes were a wrinkled, disorderly mess, covered with specks of dust. The pallor of her skin and the ruffled state of her thick black hair added to the messy looks.

At last, D'Artagnan cleared his throat, ready to venture into the lion's den. "We're not staring only... beholding."

"Beholding what exactly?" she frowned. As D'Artagnan nodded at her dress, she looked down herself. For a split second, her face fell. Obviously, she had not noticed her state of dishabille before. When she gazed back into the round, her expression had softened. "So much for sleeping on the floor, in my clothes..."

This observation caused Porthos to click his tongue. "You could have said something; there was no need to do that."

Désirée merely rolled her eyes. "Why? I am quite used to it. And Madame de Courtenay required both the bed and my company..."

"Yet while she is looking well rested and spotless now, you will be giving your lady mother a thorough fright", Aramis retorted mildly. He bore her no ill will; yet he half expected her to fly at his words. After de Courtenay's capture yesterday, they had not parted well and Aramis had had no opportunity to talk to her since.

Yet their clash seemed forgotten. Désirée greeted his comment with a wordless shrug before she turned to grab a chunk of bread off the cupboard. She seemed about to leave with her loot, but Porthos would have none of it. "Come here." With an air of slight impatience, he patted the empty chair next to him.

Désirée got the message. With a quiet groan, she obliged his request. Once she had plonked down beside him he began tugging at her skirts, straightening them as best as he could. The sight made Aramis chuckle tonelessly to himself. Usually it was his task to worry about appearances. But, here and now, his friend seemed to take the matter even more seriously than he himself ever would.

Désirée suffered his attempt to restore her presentability in silence. Until, after a moment, she focused her attention on Athos. "Has my mother sent word then?"

"She will be arriving in Paris this afternoon", he told her. To everyone's great astonishment he then made to pick some fluff from her hair. She has asked to meet you at her brother's palace. I suggest you dust yourself off properly before we go there."

She looked startled now. At first Aramis thought it was the shock of Athos fussing over her. But that was not it. "I have an uncle … with a palace?" she muttered, visibly distraught.

"An uncle who would have been king, if it were not for the present one", Aramis added. There were many more, darker truths to tell about Prince Henri de Bourbon. But, amongst themselves, the Musketeers had agreed to spare Désirée the ordeal of hearing them. The news of her noble descent had been enough to greatly perturb her. Now was not the time to burden her with a score of gloomy family secrets.

After a moment, Désirée regained control over her derailing features. "And you still wonder why the cardinal hates me...", she stated with a glum look into the round. To reinforce her words, she slapped Porthos's hand off her skirts.

Porthos took the move lightly, resting the hand on her shoulder instead. "Trust me, he gets hated back."

"Hopefully", she retorted. Absent-mindedly, she toyed with another chunk of fluff still stuck in her hair. "By the way, did de Courtenay reveal the identity of his informer?"

"I am afraid not", Athos responded. His resentful glance travelled towards Aramis. They had tried everything within their powers to squeeze a full confession out of the scoundrel, but to no avail. Now he would most likely take the secret to his grave.

The news did not agree well with Désirée either. "I hope he will rot in hell", she muttered, clenching her fist around the strand of hair she had been teasing. Judging from her scowl, it looked as though she was about to rip it right out.

D'Artagnan flinched at the sight. "If you yank at it any harder, you might as well hack it off..."

His concern surprised Désirée; enough to bring a little, yet wan, smile to her face. "You would like that, wouldn't you? I believe you have been jealous of my hair being longer and shinier than yours all along."

"Perhaps I was, but not anymore. Who wants hair that look as though a sheep has rolled itself in it?" D'Artagnan shot back with a smirk.

Next to Désirée, Porthos exploded into a fierce bout of laughter. For a moment, Aramis was afraid she might slap his friend for it. Yet, instead, she beamed at him. "Fine words from a sheep herder", she quipped before she mussed D'Artagnan's long brown hair. "I think I will miss you..."

"Well, you are not gone yet", the young man replied.

"But soon." Sighing Désirée got up from the table. Aramis sensed that the merriment she had shown but a second ago had merely served to hide her true feelings. When she realized that he was studying her, she faced away as quickly as she could without drawing the other Muketeers' attention. Something was bothering her.

After a brief silence, her eyes found Athos again. "Would you and Porthos mind escorting me today?" she inquired evenly.

Athos shook his head. "Not at all."

Her choice provoked Aramis to comment. He wanted to see how she took it. "And what about the rest of us? Do you not like us anymore?"

Désirée snorted. At once, her carefree facade slid back into place. "Quite the opposite. It would be selfish of me to bore all four of you to death." In passing, her hand brushed his shoulder. To his surprise, she leaned close, whispering into his ear. "And I hope you can forgive my outburst yesterday. I was not thinking."

"It is forgiven", he replied quietly. "We were all a little worked up."

"I am glad. I was afraid you would hate me for my vileness", she returned, before she withdrew from him.

But Aramis held on to her arm. "Please, how could I possibly hate you?"

Désirée frowned. He saw her mind work, struggling to devise an answer. "You could, believe me..."

"What do you mean?" he questioned. Her cryptic observation made no sense at all. But Désirée had already disentangled herself from his hold. As she slipped outside the kitchen, she seemed to wave away her last words, as though she had not meant them.

"What was that?" Porthos inquired.

"It looked as if she was flirting with Aramis", D'Artagnan suggested with a mischievous sparkle in his eye,

"She was not", Aramis responded, relieved that neither of them had overheard their talk.

Porthos smirked. "Of course not, because Désirée does not know how to flirt..."

His revelation made D'Artagnan frown. "Now that's the strangest thing I have ever heard."

Aramis shrugged. "Probably because she is the strangest woman you have ever met."

"So she was flirting after all", his young friend retorted. "Whenever you talk about a woman like that, something is usually amiss."

"If you say so...", Aramis sighed, hoping his friend was wrong.

xx

His prayers for her death had been ignored. By a most unfortunate twist of fate, the assassins' master had been caught. If Richelieu wanted to dispose of Désirée de Sauveterre now, he had to stain his own hands. But he was unable to afford such an act at present. If he moved against her now, Father Martin's vengeance would effectively finish all the efforts he had already put towards dealing with the insolent young woman.

Impatiently, the fingers of of his right hand clenched around the quill he was holding; so tightly, it nearly snapped in half. The culprit's execution order lay before him, ready to be signed. But the cardinal was hesitant. For minutes now, his nails had been drumming on the parchment.

His signature would send Lucien de Courtenay straight to the gallows, for attempted murder. De Courtenay had not hesitated to confess to hiring the assassins. And his careless concealment of the business had turned his own wife into a witness. In the face of so much idiocy, his death was well deserved. Yet Richelieu still missed a vital piece of intelligence:

So far, the prisoner had refused to disclose the origin of his information about Jean-Marie de Sauveterre's daughter. After her birth, the cardinal had made sure to limit all knowledge about her existence to a handful of people. This man, or his family, had not been among them.

Yet, in hindsight, their involvement would have proven very useful. The de Courtenay family's substantial grudge against the house of Bourbon-Condé was an open secret. Still, he wanted to know who had told them about Princess Éloïse's bastard in his stead. Even if matters had nearly played out in his favour, nobody had the right to defy his orders.

Suddenly the quiet click of a secret door interrupted his train of thought. The quiet swishing of silk skirts and a series of nearly soundless footfalls ensued.

"You look as though you crave a death", Milady observed quietly as she approached him from behind.

"Not yet", Richelieu dropped his quill, leaving the execution order unsigned. Almost immediately, this resigned gesture attracted his creature's attention. In a languorous manner, she rested her leg against his desk as she picked up the paper without invitation.

With the trace of a smile, she studied it. "My god, what a hapless fool. I am only glad you did not learn of his failure through me. Being the target of your mood then would have been most unfavourable."

"My mood is none of your concern", impatiently, the cardinal snatched back the document and turned it over in his hand. "Yet there may be a way to improve it. De Courtenay harbours one last secret. I want you to ensure that it does not die with him."

Milady allowed herself another enigmatic half-smile. "That should be easy enough. Would it be all?"

"For the moment." At long last, Richelieu signed the death warrant. With an air of finality, he slipped it into a desk drawer and stood. "There may be more work upon your return."

"Such as finally disposing of the girl to end your headaches?" she inquired with quizzically raised brows.

With a warning glare, he waved away her cocky suggestion. "As before, you are not to touch her. De Courtenay's slip up did not change that."

"As you wish", Milady sighed tonelessly. "It might be too late to get to her anyway."

The cardinal froze in mid motion. He had been about to turn away, yet now he spun back around, hoping he had misheard. "What are you implying?" he demanded curtly. Momentarily his smoldering anger returned, threatening to set off a fresh bout of throbbing migraines. "What are you keeping from me?"

"Nothing", with well-concealed haste, Milady increased the distance between them. "But it seems as though the little Mademoiselle has just been reunited with her lady mother."

"Why do you only tell me that now?" Richelieu snapped. He struggled to keep the speedily rising fury from his voice. Information of such vital importance was not supposed to elude him. "I am starting to doubt your competence."

"I have only just learned about it myself", Milady replied defensively, without the trace of an apology. "It appears the Musketeers have been more competent at arranging a secret meeting than you are willing to admit." Before the cardinal had any chance to reply, she made for the door that had admitted her with quick steps. Seconds later, she vanished into the darkness behind his bookcase.

At first, Richelieu wanted to grab her and drag her back. But he curbed the impulse. Unanswered questions raced through his mind. How had Princess Éloïse managed to contact and meet her daughter without his knowledge? And why had all his attempts to conceal Désirée de Sauveterre's return failed so miserably? The sudden collapse of his schemes turned his anger into hotly seething scorn. But there was nothing he could change about it now. He was expected at court.

In a last effort to vent the frustration, his flat hand came down hard against his desk. The thought of the signed warrant inside the drawer provided some solace. At the same time, he regretted that he had allowed Éloïse de Bourbon to live. Like most of her Condé kin, the princess had caused him nothing but trouble. Yet, for now, he was forced to devise other means to handle her clandestine insurgence. Or else, the blood would be on his hands alone.

Her godforsaken daughter had successfully seen to that. But Richelieu was not about to admit defeat. All he needed was patience. Sooner or later, the silly little girl would overreach herself. And then, Richelieu would get to her at last.

xx

Désirée's nails dug into her woolen skirts as she rolled the coarse fabric between her fingers. Yet the prickly sensation failed to distract her from the relentless lurch of her stomach. Never before had she felt this nervous. When Porthos touched her hand, she jumped and shivered.

"Shall we?" he ventured cautiously. His skin felt warm against the iciness of her own.

"I...", Désirée faltered. Full of awe, she beheld the impressive, palatial building in front of them. The thought of entering it felt like an intrusion. And it frightened her. "I do not know. Do you suppose I have any business inside such a noble palace? Perhaps it will swallow me whole..."

"Nonsense", Porthos told her, struggling to keep down a budding smile. "We walk in and out of palaces all the time. And, so far, none of them has eaten us."

"But then again, you are Musketeers..." she protested.

Her words earned her a sideways glance from Athos. "You are being childish. Everything will be fine."

Désirée groaned. Apparently, she would not get out of this affair anymore now. "Off we go then", she murmured, quietly admitting defeat.

Once she stepped forward, her heart began to throb madly with trepidation. But her friends' presence reassured her. Holding on to Porthos's arm, Désirée walked into the vast entrance hall, cursing herself for the shakiness of her legs. A part of her still wanted to run. But she refused to heed the urge. It was far too late for an escape.

After a brief moment, her two companions stopped. But Désirée only noticed it when Porthos gently nudged her side. Startled, she looked up from her feet, to a sight that make her quiver more than ever before. In front of then stood Éloïse de Bourbon herself, and not the servant she had expected to greet them.

"Mother", hurriedly, Désirée curtsied. Very nearly, she caught her skirts underneath the heel of her boot and slipped.

To her dismay, the sorry sight amused the princess. "You need not curtsy, child", she said and extended a hand to help her back up.

Gratefully, Désirée grasped it. Yet she let go again, the second she had safely regained her feet. The briefness of their touch made the princess frown unhappily. She looked as though she would have welcomed an embrace.

Désirée sighed. "I am sorry, but I cannot hug you right now." She plucked at one of the dust stains still marking her skirt. "You would end up soiling your fine silks", she muttered apologetically. The glance Athos gave her added to her sentiment of idiocy. He had told her to change the dress. And he had been right...

But Princess Éloïse took her refusal well enough. "Your father has never been too clean, either. He had more important business on his mind", she said.

"Like saving the world from sin", Désirée replied wistfully.

"He only started doing that extensively after you were born", her mother stated. "But, come, we should rather sit down to talk."

Briskly, she turned and walked ahead, further into the palace. Obviously, she expected them to follow. And, after hesitating for another moment, Désirée decided to comply with her mother's unspoken invitation.

Walking in the princess's wake, they passed through a long, marble-tiled corridor. Its walls were decorated with flowers and vines carved from golden stucco. Among the ornate gilt-work hung portraits of ancestors, looking down at them with serene countenance.

In front of one portrait, Désirée stopped. The man in it reminded her of her mother. He had very large blue eyes, pale, reddish hair and even paler skin, reminiscent of her own ivory flesh. "Who is that?" she whispered to Athos, hoping he might know.

"Your grandfather, Henri. He was the previous king's cousin", he told her.

She gazed at the strange face for another moment, until a funny thought occurred to her. "Is the present king just as lily-skinned?"

"Less than you", Porthos put in unhelpfully, "and you are as white as a sheet right now."

"Funny", Désirée rolled her eyes and let go of his hand. Gradually, her unease lifted. After another moment of indecision, she finally mustered the courage to follow her mother into the reception hall that lay straight ahead of them.

With slow steps she walked into the vast room. Its sheer capacity inspired her with awe, great enough to make her hold her breath. Of course, the princess noticed.

"Do not fret. You have every right to be here." Carefully she ushered Désirée to sit next to her on one of the upholstered benches. "And that includes breathing the same air as myself."

Embarrassed by her own awe, Désirée remembered to draw breath. "A lot of people would not agree", she replied gloomily, "they would rather I cease to exist altogether."

Princess Éloïse smiled wryly at her words. "I know the feeling, trust me. There are some who would wish for me to die as well. These include the cardinal, Father Martin and my late husband's extended family."

"Father Martin...", perplexed, Désirée stared at her. He had only ever shown her great kindness and respect.

And her mother knew. "Yes, but he has always adored you. He is priest enough to know where to lay his blame."

" _For the child is never at fault_..." Désirée murmured. She had heard this phrase at the mission often enough. And it had never failed to protect her from maltreatment. Always, but once...

By now, Athos and Porthos had joined them. Two servants followed close behind, carrying trays of refreshments.

But Désirée was not hungry. Too many questions were plaguing her. "And what of your husband's relatives? Do they know of...?"

"You?" the princess shook her head. "Oh no, they merely sought to disinherit me, since I failed to bear my husband any children." She faltered, struggling to keep down an onrush of tears. "In truth, I did not want to have any more children... after losing you "

Her tears were contagious. Before Désirée knew it, they were blurring her sight as well. "So, we barely ever spent any time together, did we?"

"We had but three days, before your father stole you away from me." Sobbing with growing grief, she doubled over. Her back heaved as she fought for composure.

The sight rendered Désirée motionless. Immobile like a pillar of salt she sat next to her mother. It felt as though she was miles away. She wanted to hold her; but it was impossible for her to reach out.

Her inability to budge made Porthos click his tongue disapprovingly. "For goodness sake", he groaned. From his sleeve, he produced a clean handkerchief and pressed it into Désirée's hand.

His gesture broke her petrification. With caution, she wrapped an arm around Éloïse. "Now I am here", she whispered as she dabbed the tears off her mother's flushing cheeks. "And nobody will steal me away again."

It took long minutes, before the princess's sobbing began to cease. When she finally looked back up into Désirée's face, she still looked shaken. But her strength to speak had returned. "And I will not allow it to happen. When you were an infant, I was barred from seeing you. All I knew I heard from Camille. Then the cardinal forced me into this cruel marriage, and your father took you to China."

"And in the end, Camille gave her life for us..." Désirée took a deep breath. The memory of her beloved nurse's her violent death pierced her heart like a dagger, threatening to rip it apart.

"She did and her sacrifice grieves me all the same." There was no telling whether the princess had noticed her inner struggle. If so, she did not let on. "Did you find out who was responsible, yet?" she inquired of the Musketeers.

"We did", Athos answered, "the traces lead back to Lucien de Courtenay. But so far, he would not confess how he has learned about your daughter's return to France. Would you have an idea who might have informed on him?"

"Hardly... " the princess frowned. "The only three living souls who know about Désirée are the cardinal, Father Martin and myself. My brother is informed now as well. But I have only told him two days ago."

"This rather leaves Richelieu himself", Désirée pondered. Father Martin would never harm her. Otherwise he had not defended her so valiantly in front of the cardinal. His actions had put the Jesuit superior into considerable personal danger. A danger he would not have tolerated, solely to cover his tracks. Quickly, she banished this abstruse idea from her thoughts.

The same instant, a much more frightful notion replaced it: her uncle. Certainly, he had not taken well to learning about her. "Yet your lord brother has to dislike me just as much", she observed.

Her words changed Princess Éloïse's expression. The last of her glumness faded away, to be replaced by a completely unreadable look. Inwardly, Désirée winced. It was impossible to see whether she had just amused her mother, or if she had made a fool of herself yet again...

"What makes you say so?" her mother raised an inquisitive brow.

"After all, my existence blights this family's noble name", Désirée suggested cautiously. Still, the princess's reaction was impossible to gauge and, she feared it.

But her mother merely laughed out loud. "Trust me, Henri sympathizes with your plight; more than you could possibly fathom..."

"As far as I know, my greatest plight is that of illegitimacy", Désirée stated with a frown. She did not understand why the greatest, most abominable sin she had carried with her all her life mattered so little to her mother. Being a bastard had hurt her even more than growing up motherless, living a lie.

"Quite right", the princess replied. "This is why he has suggested to petition the king for your legitimation."

Désirée gasped. The sudden revelation made her heart jump. Instinctively, she pressed her hand against her chest, afraid her raging heartbeats might show through her ribs. After a moment, breathless shock became cautious joy. Yet still, the news felt too good to be true. "I...", she faltered, seeking the right way to express the concerns that now flooded her mind. "Do you think the king will...?"

"Understand your situation?" Her mother took a careful hold of her hand. "I doubt it. But he will not be disinclined to welcoming an intriguing new cousin to the family."

"That is, unless the cardinal succeeds in dissuading him", Athos observed in a low voice, barely above a whisper.

Her mother heard him all the same. And the notion caused her to crease her brow. "He might. He will not take well to seeing his efforts of the past twenty years destroyed within the blink of an eye", she admitted very earnestly.

"I do not believe he'll intercede", Porthos blurted out now. "Unless he fancies some trouble with his own lot."

The princess did not take long to grasp the meaning of his comment. "I take it, Father Martin has had a word with him?"

"He has indeed", Désirée confirmed.

"That would put the fear of God into every man, at least for a while", her mother stated, breathing a sigh of relief. "So, I assume, we shall be safe from harm, for the time being."

Athos, however, still failed to share the growing optimism. "It remains to be seen. The plot's initiator might yet attempt to strike again."

Éloïse sighed. "I believe he will think twice before raising his hand against a member of the royal family. Besides, will it not be easier for you to protect Désirée once she is my legitimate daughter?"

"In theory. But your grace should be aware that none of this has happened, yet." Athos replied with some caution.

"I have great faith in my royal cousin", she contested. "He has enough sense to understand that my brother and I only want the best for my daughter and so, he will grant her legitimacy."

Désirée bit her lip. To hear her mother talk over her head, simply assuming authority over her fate, made her sick with anger. "Your daughter can hear you", she brought out through gritted teeth. "But I assume you will not allow her to decide her own future."

All eyes rested on her now. Désirée struggled to overcome urge to gaze at her hands. Instead, she braved her mother's sudden, unfavourable stare without cringing.

"What other future is there for you?" Éloïse stated tonelessly. "Would you rather wallow in shame and misery?"

Groaning Désirée rolled her eyes. As she did, she caught a glimpse of Athos. He was beholding her without any sign of displeasure. Yet an unmistakable warning clouded over his ice blue eyes. They cautioned her not to deny the blessing that had bestowed upon her. Almost imperceptibly, she nodded at him, struggling to restrain her wrath. She had always longed for a life in legitimacy. Now she came close to destroying this dream on a childish whim.

"No", she replied, "but I refuse to be gouverned like a child. If you want to discuss my fate, you will involve me."

Her mother was flabbergasted. For a long moment, her mouth opened and closed haplessly. It was obvious that she was not used to contradiction. As she finally regained control of her wits, a tear rolled down her cheek and dripped onto the cushions. "Your father speaks through you. He has raised you in his image, a stubborn ass..."

"I am not stubborn", Désirée quipped mildly. "I merely value my freedom."

"Is that not the same?" A fleeting smile appeared on Éloïse's face.

Désirée bit back another groan. "Call it as you wish. You will have to live with it either way."

"Obviously. There are, however, a few things you have to learn as well." The princess eyed her closely. "For once, you need a lesson in manners."

Out of nowhere, Porthos greeted her statement with a low chuckle. But he curbed himself the second he felt Désirée's glare boring through him. "Sorry..." he muttered, quietly clearing his throat.

Désirée scowled at him for another instant, before gazing back at her mother. "Just what is the matter with my manners?" she questioned, a note too sharply. "Did my conduct at our first meeting shock you that badly? If so, I am very sorry."

"It is not just that." Very lightly, her mother's hand brushed against her arm. "Among the nobility, protocol and proper conduct are of crucial importance. If you do not follow the rules, people will make life very hard for you. Trust me, I know how it feels."

Instinctively, Désirée grasped her mother's hand. She felt incredibly silly for asking such an impertinent question. "I understand. Yet I cannot change my nature. You must promise me to accept that."

A long silence followed her words. Gradually, a feeling of dread began to surface within Désirée. What if she had just asked too much of her mother? Both of them had suffered great agony through endless years of loss and separation. It seemed unfair to impose conditions on their reunion now. But she could not help herself. Her father would not want her to change, only to honour another person's wishes; be it her mother or the Emperor of China.

But, suddenly, her mother's gentle embrace shook Désirée from her worrisome thoughts. "I promise." With tremulous lips, she planted a kiss on her forehead.

The unexpected gesture rendered her speechless, moving her to silent tears of joy.

As Éloïse let go, her hand touched Désirée's cheek. With her fingertips, she dried the last of the newly wept tears. "I would promise you anything, just to keep you by my side."

Désirée was glad of her honesty. And she answered it in kind. "Even though I may not be the daughter you had hoped for, I am ready to take whatever place you intend for me."  
The words felt foreign, even though they were her own. She had expected relief to wash over her as she spoke. But no feelings accompanied them at all; only a cold, nagging sense of inner emptiness. At a loss for an explanation, she chose to ignore her strange state of mind. Eventually it was simply a result of the last days' tribulations.

Her mother did not notice her detachment. Instead, she clasped her hands between her own. "I am glad of it", she announced with a smile. After a thoughtful pause, she added, "Before you take your place, however, I have to ask you another favour."

Désirée narrowed her eyes. Bewildered, she gazed at her friends and back at her mother. Was her acceptance not as unconditional after all?

Her mother noticed her confusion. And it made her laugh. "Oh, it is merely a small thing. I would simply appreciate it if you bathed and changed before I present you to your uncle at dinner."

It sounded reasonable enough. The passing look of smugness on Athos's face suggested the same. Sighing with defeat, Désirée nodded. "I will see to it. Just point me into the right direction."

"Silly girl", her mother was chuckling now. "There is no need to trouble yourself." Upon the clap of her hands, the two maids reappeared in the room. Evangeline, the girl who had accompanied Camille, was one of them.

Uneasily, Désirée glanced at them. The same unease and insecurity mirrored itself in their timid gazes. "Well, I hope you are not squeamish..." she murmured to herself as she rose from the bench to join them.

With a glance at Athos and Porthos, she added. "You two will stay right here."

"Why should we run away?" Porthos shot back with a cheeky grin. It felt unfair. He knew exactly how awkward and lost she felt in this very moment, with two strangers about to scrub her clean and dress her up like a doll.

"That is, we might", Athos added, turning towards the princess, "if your lady mother allows it." Clearly, they were both enjoying themselves way too much right now.

Luckily, her mother waved his comment away. "I can only repeat my daughter's request: you will stay. And I hope you will join us for dinner as well. You have earned some reward for keeping Désirée safe."

"We were merely doing our duty", Athos replied modestly. But it was a great understatement. The Musketeers had saved her from certain death, more than once.

Before she followed the servants from the room, Désirée passed him a look of deep gratitude. At this moment, it was all she could do, to repay his great kindness. But it would never suffice; no more than a simple invitation to dinner. But, at least, this pretext kept her friends close. Even though her life was in no immediate danger, she needed the Musketeers more dearly than ever. Here, amidst the palace's awe-inspiring finery, stranded in a new life she had not even begun to comprehend, Désirée would be lost without them.


	13. Deceit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To learn de Courtenay's secrets, Désirée comes up with a clandestine plan. Yet her secret plot is dangerous and may lead to an avalanche of dire consequences. Will the Musketeers find out soon enough to prevent a catastrophe?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the story is back for you with a new chapter. Thank you all so much for your patience! The past few months have been more challenging than usual, but now things are gradually settling down for the start of a new term. And a new series of Musketeers soon, too. Woot!
> 
> I have also been very lucky to recruit a new proofreader off 's beta network after my old one had to leave. Please welcome the amazing Beautyinpain with a big round of applause. =)
> 
> But now to the new chapter. It is a bit longer than usual to recompense you for the endlessly long wait. In it, I will also introduce the only member of Désirée's family I based off a "real" historical figure: Prince Henri II de Condé. But I will ramble on a bit more about him in the comments below. For now, please enjoy this latest chapter!

13\. Deceit

The chill crept across her shoulders and rippled down her spine. It was the cool evening air stirring against the remainder of wetness the hot bath had left on her skin. Désirée was in her chemise, pacing back and forth in front of the half-open windows of her new rooms. But she was so restless that she hardly cared for the cold, or her marvelous surroundings. She could have been happy now, for she had found what she had longed for the most, ever since losing her father: a home.

The grand quarters her mother had so generously provided were fit for a noblewoman. They consisted of a lavish bed and sitting room, each big enough to house a small family. Having so much space to herself was as much a novelty as were the presence of a maid to dress her and an abundance of hot water to wash. In her old life, Désirée had not known such amenities. Being used to cold baths, the sensation of submerging in hot water had startled her. Yet her wildly racing mind had stopped her from deciding whether she abhorred or enjoyed the feeling.

Still deep in thought, she brushed a hand across the goosebumps on her arm, yet her fingertips did not perceive them. Désirée was too lost in the ravaging motions inside her head. The notion that de Courtenay would die without revealing who had tipped him off sped back and forth inside her mind, ever since Athos had told her about it.

While being with her mother she had been granted a moment of merciful oblivion to the fact. They had not been apart for more than a short while, before it had returned to haunt her. She blamed herself for the lives his reckless actions had destroyed. Her beloved Camille was dead, and poor Madame de Courtenay wished she was, after both her brother and husband had been taken from her.

Of course, the Musketeers would do everything in their power to unearth the culprit, wherever he was hiding. Yet they had already suffered enough for her sake. This matter was her responsibility, and hers alone.

"Mademoiselle ought to be careful not to catch a chill," a quiet voice announced cautiously from behind her.

Full of startled surprise, Désirée spun around. It was Evangeline. Stunned by her shrewd look, the maidservant stood transfixed holding out a pair of embroidered silk stockings.

"I am not cold..." Désirée muttered quietly as she took them. The moment she sat down on the bed and pulled them on, her mind drifted back to de Courtenay almost at once. She could not stand the thought of him for another second. The urge to act had become overpowering.

"Evangeline..." she blurted out before she knew what she was doing; but gradually a plan began to hatch in her head.

"Yes Mademoiselle?" the young woman inquired almost eagerly. There was a strange quality of gullible innocence to her expectant glance.

It made her shudder with a horrible realization: She was about to abuse the poor girl's loyalty, to drag her into an affair of incalculable proportions. And by following her whimsical intentions, she would also commit treason against her closest friends. She had no idea why she was even considering it. But time was running short, and so were other options. It had to be done, even though her conscience baulked at the mere prospect. The knowledge that she willfully betrayed her dearest friends, while they were still downstairs to await her return, threatened to break her heart.

Désirée's teeth dug into her lower lip, so fiercely that she tasted blood. Eventually, the pain sufficed to distract her from her qualms. "I have a favour to ask of you," she said firmly. "There is someone I must meet. And you are my only hope of arranging it."

Almost unnoticeably Evangeline cringed. Nervously, she twisted her finger to vent her obvious discomfort. The unexpected request had taken her by surprise. Obviously it was not commonplace for a handmaiden to be pulled into the thick of a conspiracy. "Who do you need to meet?" she inquired shakily, her voice barely above a whisper.

"I will tell you in a moment," Désirée replied. She managed to keep her words steady and to conceal her own insecurity. "But the matter has to stay between the two of us. Will you swear to keep it our secret?"

"Mademoiselle, I..." Evangeline stammered. She stepped back, away from her, until she bumped into the dressing table. Blindly she groped behind her back until her hand closed around a large, wooden hairbrush. Like a weapon, she clutched it in her fist. "I am but a simple maidservant. There is only so much I can do for you," she observed, hardly daring to look her in the eye.

Désirée sighed heavily. Clearly, she had asked too much. Yet it did not mean that she was about to give up so soon. "See, I cannot force you. But there is no one else I can trust with this."

"Can't you trust the Musketeers?" Evangeline questioned with a deepening frown that spoke of both reluctance and confusion.

"I can surely trust them with everything else, but not this. The matter is too delicate for soldiers." Gingerly she patted the vacant spot to her right, hoping Evangeline would sit down, before she collapsed from apprehension. It surprised her how the young woman had barely winced when she had scrubbed her back and seen her scars. It seemed unlike her to be squeamish now. Perhaps all Evangeline needed was a reminder of her own strength.

"I have faith that you possess the sensibility and the bravery to accomplish the task", Désirée ventured with a brief smile of encouragement.

After another instant of stupor, Evangeline finally mustered the courage to settle down beside her on the large four-poster bed. As she sat she let go of the brush. It slipped from her hand and glided onto the sheets with a muffled thud. "I am not as daring as you may think," she observed meekly. "But I am brave enough to listen to your wishes."

"Thank you," Désirée replied breathing a mute prayer. Getting her maid to listen was a start. "You have no idea how much your help means to me..."

Indeed, Evangeline's involvement would decide her plan's success. And if the endeavour went awry, the courageous girl would be the only ally she had left in the world...

xx

The rustle of silk skirts made Porthos look up. When his gaze reached the top of the wide, winding marble staircase, he let out a quiet gasp of amazement. He knew that the young lady traipsing towards him was indeed Désirée. She had not even been upstairs for two hours, yet she seemed transformed into a very different woman.

Atop a shiny pile of light purple skirts she wore a tight-fitted damask bodice, lavishly embroidered with flowers made from tiny silver beads. Her hair was held up by two silver combs and billowed down over her shoulders in a waterfall of shining black curls. Among the black, there were shimmering traces of pearls. She looked truly stunning, making it hard not to gawp.

He realized that Athos was not even looking at her; instead he seemed intent on one of the many portraits that hung around the hall. Porthos quietly cleared his throat and nodded his head towards the stairs. When his comrade finally turned around and spotted Désirée, the faint ghost of a smile crept across his face. Clearly he liked what he saw too.

"I wonder if that's still our fiery little Mademoiselle..." Porthos muttered. Yet he never got to finish the thought.

In that very moment, Désirée tripped on the hem of her skirts so that she nearly fell down the last three steps. Seconds before it was too late, the maid in her wake grasped her arm to stop her from hurting herself.

"Yes, she definitely is," Athos commented so dryly that it almost made Porthos laugh out loud.

After sketching the smallest of bows Porthos held out his hand to help Désirée navigate the final step. "You look beautiful tonight, Mademoiselle," he stated as she had come to stand before him in all her finery.

To his surprise, she barely acknowledged his comment. The look on her face was cool and unmoved, making it look as though he had just made fun of her. "Damn these silly shoes," she muttered gloomily as she let go of his hand and scooped up her gown to keep it from tripping her yet again. Désirée's appearance was definitely the only thing that had changed, and the certainty of that fact gave Porthos a sense of relief. Yet he did not miss that his friend seemed somewhat distraught. And it worried him. Gently he touched her arm.

"Are you alright?" he inquired softly.

"Don't worry about me," Désirée replied. Her tone was calm, yet strangely, she did not look at him as she spoke. "It's just this silly dress and..." She paused. It was as though she wanted to say more, and dared not.

"And what?" He probed cautiously.

"Everything else," she muttered at last, with tangible reluctance. "Or would you like being scrubbed clean and dressed up like a pretty princess?"

Porthos smirked at the mental image her words provoked. "The dressing-up I like, but I'm not entirely sure about the scrubbing part."

"You should have listened when I told you to put on a fresh set of clothes," Athos chimed in. He was walking behind them and seemed to enjoy the scene a little too much for his usual reservation.

Full of exasperation, Désirée rolled her eyes. "Are you suggesting that these fine draperies qualify as clothes?"

"Why would they not?" Porthos questioned in return.

"Because they feel wrong," she stated, as though it was the most obvious thing. But it was not; the dress looked very lovely on her. As much as she apparently despised it, it made her youthful beauty impossible to overlook.

"You will get used to it," Porthos reassured her with a gentle pat on the back.

Sadly, she was not given much more time to adapt. Princess Éloïse was already awaiting them in the palace's grand reception hall. The vast room had thick silken carpets and sported ornately carved golden vines that ran the length of the walls and vaulted ceiling. It was another step up from the ones they had seen before, yet Désirée was oblivious of all its grandiose finery.

Still preoccupied with the fear of stumbling she approached her mother with the slightest nod of her head. "Mother."

Upon beholding her in her new, fine attire, the princess's face lit up with delight. "Look at you. Now that is much more suitable."

"I am glad it pleases you," Désirée retorted with a pained smile.

"Oh, it most certainly does." Affectionately, her mother smoothed down a flyaway wisp of Désirée's curled hair. "And now, I would like you to meet my brother." She nodded at one of the attending servants, sending him to fetch his master.

But the servant did not get very far. Before he had even left the room, Prince Henri appeared in the hallway. His sudden arrival made Porthos wince inwardly. As the prince walked by, he bowed, barely managing to disguise the surprise on his face.

From the corner of his eye, Porthos studied the man. Up close, Henri seemed to be more of a marvelous apparition than a mere mortal. He bore himself with a gallant air of nobility, striding forward with long, determined steps. His erect posture left as little doubt about his standing, as did his fine velvet breeches, golden silk doublet and artfully trimmed beard which all befitted a man of his stature or something.

As he closed in on Désirée, she dropped into a deep curtsy. His all-consuming presence awed her and she failed to hide it. Upon noticing it, the prince chose to let her suffer this state of admiration for a little while longer. Pretending not to see her, he greeted his sister.

Only when she nodded into Désirée's direction did he allow her to make his acquaintance. And, even now, he refused to take the first step. Luckily, Désirée had enough courage to address him.

"Your Highness," she said, staring straight into his face. Unafraid she raised her hand for him to kiss.

A long silence ensued. Next to him Porthos heard Athos suck in a sharp breath. Désirée's candid address had been unworthy of a royal prince. Yet Porthos doubted that she had done it out of ignorance. The prince's aloof demeanour had irked her. And, as so often, she seemed to overlook the consequences of her reaction. Mentally, he readied himself to jump forward and apologize for the faux pas.

As Henri finally moved, Porthos cringed involuntarily. But, instead of uttering any disapproval, the prince grasped Désirée's hand. Bowing his head ever so slightly, he breathed a kiss onto the back of her hand.

"Mademoiselle," he greeted her with a fleeting smirk. "I see you are not easily cowed."

"Not often," Désirée replied. "I have seen far too much for it."

The prince acknowledged her words with a brief nod before he beckoned for her to rise. "Then there can be little doubt about your being of Condé blood. But we shall discuss these matters over dinner."

With that, he looped a hand around her elbow, guiding her towards the dining hall. When Désirée glanced over her shoulder she looked startled and bewildered, as though she had no clue what had just happened.

Athos returned her glance with a mild, but disapproving scowl. Of course Porthos knew that his friend was not being as earnest as he looked. Still, he had a good point: It was unwise to provoke Henri de Condé. Whoever slighted him could be sure to expect dire repercussions.

"Impossible woman," Athos muttered as he followed the procession towards dinner.

"Impossible but effective," Porthos retorted with a grin. Prince Henri was by far no easy man. Yet Désirée had just wrapped him around her finger, as though it was the simplest thing in the world.

xx

"Do you think they are enjoying themselves?" D'Artagnan inquired as they walked out of the garrison gates.

Dusk was about to fall and their friends had been at the Palais de Condé for hours now. Aramis had not spent much thought on their absence. On the other hand, he had already begun to wonder when his young friend would grow impatient for their return.

"Perhaps," he replied, smiling to himself. "Désirée will most likely be too nervous to feel anything else. Porthos, however, might enjoy holding her hand. And, who knows about Athos really?"

"At least, they will be having more fun than us," D'Artagnan muttered, "stuck playing errand boys for yet another unhappy lady."

Aramis clicked his tongue disapprovingly. "Madame de Courtenay has every right to be unhappy. And, as a gentleman, you should feel honoured to tend to her needs. Not to mention that her brother was a loyal friend and comrade of many years standing. We owe it to him as much as to her."

"Yes, I know, "D'Artagnan grumbled. "I am just saying that fetching clothes and documents is not exciting. After all, we are soldiers, not maidservants."

"True," Aramis chuckled. He could not disagree with that sentiment. "But we are free of it now; at least for tonight."

With an audible sigh from D'Artagnan, they turned the corner. "So, do you have any plans for tonight?"

"Well, after taking you home, I will go to the chapel to pray. Afterwards, I will retire to my room to study my Bible," Aramis replied.

D'Artagnan wrinkled his nose. Obviously, the young man was unconvinced of his true intentions that night. "And perhaps call on Madame de Courtenay for a few prayers as well?"

"Hardly," Aramis rolled his eyes. "Need I remind you that she only has eyes for you?"

"Funny." His friend seemed nonplussed, yet he could not quite hide the pink flush colouring his cheeks. "I think all she wants is a shoulder to cry on."

Even though his observation was somewhat blunt it contained some very important wisdom. Almost proudly, Aramis patted D'Artagnan's shoulder. "Well, comfort is among a woman's greatest needs. And, sometimes, it is their one true motive for flirting with a man."

"I can believe that," D'Artagnan agreed, thinking about his words. "But only if you don't include Désirée in that number..."

Aramis frowned at his friend's strange notion. "What do you mean?"

But he never got an answer. Instead, D'Artagnan grabbed his arm. From one instant to the next, something had taken up every grain of his attention. And, whatever he had seen, had put the young man into a state of alarmed urgency.

"Come on. Quickly," moving briskly, he led Aramis down the street. With every step he scanned their surroundings, as though they were being followed. At last, he slipped into a side alley, urging Aramis to follow him into the shadows. "There," he brought out at last. With his finger, he pointed at a hooded figure walking on the far edge of the crowded main street.

It was a slender young woman, clad in a plain green dress and short, brown wool mantle. Something about her felt familiar, yet, amidst all the rush, Aramis could not quite pinpoint what it was. Yet he did not fail to notice the timid sluggishness of her gait. Wherever she was headed, the prospect seemed to inspire her with dread. And then, he caught a glimpse of her face. It was Evangeline, the princess's maid. "What is she doing here? Should she not be with her mistress?"

D'Artagnan nodded. "I think we should find out what she is up to, just in case..."

Aramis could only agree. He did not like this turn of events in the slightest. After all, Désirée's protection was still their responsibility. And the thought of yet another possible attempt on her life was too real to push away. Full of determination, he stepped out of the alley. Walking quickly, he crossed the street, signaling for his comrade to follow on the opposite side. Luckily the high streets were still filled with people at this hour. They should have no trouble moving unseen in Evangeline's shadow.

With caution, Aramis weaved his way through the passers-by, always keeping one eye on their target. As fast as he could without running, he followed Evangeline down the road, until suddenly; she made a sharp right turn around the next corner.

At the edge of his vision, he saw D'Artagnan come to a dead stop. His comrade had not foreseen her next move. Hurriedly he scampered backwards and flattened himself against a wall, mere seconds before she passed him.

It was only his luck that Evangeline had looked the other way. As soon as she was out of sight, Aramis crossed over to him. With a reproachful click of his tongue, he lightly punched his arm. "Always look where are you going."

"Right," D'Artagnan muttered. He risked a quick peek around the corner. With a nod he indicated that they were good to follow the princess's servant at a safe distance once more.

Although Aramis had the feeling that they had almost reached her destination. He knew very well where the street ahead took them and the knowledge filled him with a dark sense of foreboding. Not a minute later, Evangeline stopped walking. Inwardly, Aramis cursed. He had not been wrong: She was headed straight to the cardinal's palace.

With a heavy sigh, he grabbed D'Artagnan and took him to the other end of the small square they had just entered. From here they could safely watch the events unfold.

"Is she going where I thinks she is?" his friend whispered, sounding no less shocked than Aramis felt. He paused to watch Evangeline haggle with the guards. Despite her obvious trepidation, she was very adamant about whatever business had brought her here. Aramis had no clue what it could possibly be, or on whose instructions she was acting. All he knew was that she had not come here of her own free will. She was too nervous for it.

"Do you think Désirée knows?" D'Artagnan asked after a long moment's silence.

That was a very good question. Aramis thought it over intently, until their strange exchange of this morning came back to his mind. "I have a feeling that she does."

"But why would she betray us like that?" D'Artagnan's face nearly fell at the idea.

Aramis shook his head. "I am not sure." Without another thought he wrapped an arm around his young comrade's shoulders. "Let us inform the others in the morning. Then we shall find out together."

Experience told him that it was pointless to seek answers here and now. Matters had to run their course, even though it meant that worry was certain to steal his sleep. He could as well spend the night awake, praying for his suspicions to be wrong.

xx

At last she had broken the prisoner. It had been hard work, but eventually, Milady had found de Courtenay's Achilles heel. At first, she had tried to use the thought of his wife as leverage. Unfortunately, he had proven completely callous towards his spouse. And his coldness had not surprised her at all. It reminded her of the facade her own husband had put on after his brother's death. But, while Athos had merely used it to mask the remains of his desire for her, de Courtenay's cold ignorance was very real. It had pointed her to his core weakness - arrogance.

Thankfully, this arrogance had proven a most reliable ally. Once Milady had taken the egoistic rottenness of his character into stride de Courtenay had fallen apart within minutes. She had confronted him with the careless idiocy of his actions and how the world would remember him as a fool, unable to handle even the simplest affairs. There also was the issue of his target being of royal blood. Should the king hear of this, her illegitimacy would hardly matter. Then he would beg for a hanging, in the face of his new punishment.

Naturally, these claims were wild and largely untrue, but they had crumbled the vain idiot's resolve to dust. He had fallen to his knees, sobbing and begging her to conceal the true nature of his crimes. Then he had confessed everything. A fake show of compassion and the assurance to keep silent had been enough to achieve that.

And de Courtenay's tale had been very intriguing. The cardinal would certainly enjoy hearing it. As it turned out, the informer was no stranger to his eminence.

Milady quickened her pace so she would arrive at the cardinal's palace before dark. She could not wait for the news to alleviate her patron's foul mood. Richelieu became quite unpleasant when he kept brooding like this for too long. And she had no wish to be at the receiving end of her patron's temper any longer.

When she turned into the square in front of the ecclesiastical palace, however, a strange sight made her stop. Up ahead, a woman was quarrelling with two Red Guards. Still hidden within the gloom of a side street, Milady approached. Now she saw that the woman was almost still a girl, no older than eighteen. Yet her demeanour towards the guards was adamant and her desperation was almost tangible.

She strained her ears to overhear what the young thing wanted. But she was still too far away. Still unseen, she moved closer with slow, soundless steps. At once, one of the guardsmen became impatient. He pushed the girl so hard that she spun sideways. Now Milady realized that her face was familiar. She had seen this girl somewhere in passing, not long ago. But where?

Quickly, she slipped past the startled young creature and confronted the guards. "What does she want?" she asked curtly, without looking at them.

"She wants to give some message to his eminence," one guard replied, "on behalf of her mistress."

"And she insists she must pass it on in person," the other added in a derisive tone.

The mention of a mistress caught Milady's attention. Once again she tried to place the girl. This time instinct told her that the servant's business here was not unimportant. "Did she name her mistress?" she questioned, in need of more information.

"She might have," the first guard scoffed, "but she's obviously just a silly little girl with ideas."

His blatant ignorance was enough for Milady to groan. "More ideas than you imbeciles will ever have," she muttered as she approached the young woman who was still hovering nearby. It seemed as though she had to make her own inquiries. Otherwise she would never learn anything of value.

She stopped for a moment, waiting to get noticed. As the girl finally looked up at her, Milady discovered that she had been sobbing. It promised an easy entry into her confidence.

In hopes of winning her trust, Milady donned a sympathetic smile. "Have those two scoundrels been mean to you?"

She merely nodded eyeing her with tangible suspicion. "But it should not concern you Madame. It was my fault."

"Well," Milady sighed. This young thing was smarter and less trusting than she had first assumed. But all the better; she had dealt with enough halfwits for one day. "Perhaps I can help you nevertheless."

"But how?" unconvinced she creased her brow.

Milady decided to take a straightforward approach with her. After all dark was already upon them, and she had no more time to waste. "Let us assume that the guards are not the only way to the cardinal." She stooped a little to be at eye level with her. "And it is him you want to see, is it not?"

Again there was only a curt nod. Another suspicious frown followed on the foot. "Just who are you, Madame?"

"You may call me Milady de Winter," she replied. "And who are you?"

"I am Evangeline," the girl replied blandly, looking away.

Perhaps a little too firmly, Milady touched her hand. "And why are you here, Evangeline?"

Now Evangeline looked back at her. "My mistress asked me to deliver a message to his eminence. And she instructed me to pass it on to nobody else."

Now they were finally getting somewhere. "And who is your mistress? I believe the cardinal would want to know as well, to give her demands the proper attention."

"Her highness, Princess Éloïse de Bourbon. But it was her daughter who sent me here," she replied.

Her daughter ... Désirée de Sauveterre. Milady's intuition had indeed been right. The servant girl's presence here was anything but insignificant. Now she recalled where she had seen her before: It had only been a glimpse from a distance as she had shadowed the Musketeers, following them outside the city gates.

"In that case, I am sure the cardinal will want to see you." And Richelieu would most likely enjoy the spectacle of it. Perhaps it provided an opportunity to finally get a hold on the elusive young woman who kept on sparking his hatred.

In any case she could not afford to miss the chance. Yet she might, if she tried to entice the stubborn girl to tell her the message instead. So she decided to take a more unusual course of action. "Come on, I will take you to him," she conceded despite all risks for herself. Such open involvement could easy endanger her carefully kept secret identity.

Evangeline hesitated. She stood stock still obviously weighing her options. Her tense pose revealed that running away was definitely one of them. But, at last, the loyalty to her mistress won and she followed without saying another word.

As Milady lead the way past the perplexed Red Guards, she felt a pang of excitement. She was curious how her patron would react to her unusual little present. Things definitely looked more promising now than they had in the morning. And perhaps, putting the fear of God into a frightened maidservant would provide just the right diversion to alleviate his foul temper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the read. It has been my first go at writing both Milady and Prince Henri. How did you like him?
> 
> Even though he is a difficult man, and also was one historically, I get on with his muse pretty well. I included him as a minor character because many famous writers, such as Dumas, Anne Golon and Annemarie Selinko, have been a bit too hard on his family. So I am trying to paint a slightly nicer picture. But, of course, I am not making any claims to historical accuracy here either. ;)
> 
> If you would like to get a quick overview of him and his life, I recommend reading, or translating, the French-language Wikipedia article. It has a bit more detail.
> 
> Hoping to see you all soon! x Nessa


	14. Open Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Désirée's plan reveals itself and it bodes ill. Will the Musketeers help her? And what of her family?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally, the story is back. Thank you all for your patience and ongoing support. The exam season is brewing madly for me once more, but I have been able to write some more over the holidays. So there should be another update shortly. :)  
> x Nessa

Chapter 14 - Open Secrets

There was no telling what time it was. As Désirée sneaked along the upstairs hallway the first tender rays of dawn grazed the high walls. The day was trapped somewhere between daybreak and morning; as was she. After she had woken with a start, sleep had refused to return.

It had not been long until restlessness had driven her out of bed for good. Quietly she had slipped outside for a walk. Now here she was, aimlessly wandering through her new home. As she moved the old floorboards creaked under her bare feet, despite the lavish carpet that covered them. The sound brought back memories of the old mission house back in China. The further she walked the more it comforted her disquieted nerves.

Yesterday night Evangeline had returned to her, afraid and shaking all over. She had completed the task Désirée had given her with success. The cardinal would meet her in the morning, at the chapel of the old seminary. It was good news, but the price had been high. Looking at her maid, she knew that Richelieu had scared the life out of the girl, threatening her or even worse. The blank expression of fear in Evangeline's large, round eyes had chilled Désirée to the bone. It had not left her for the rest of the night, instilling her with a crippling sense of guilt. What had she done?

Suddenly, the nearby sound changed its pattern, returning her attention to the here and now. Startled Désirée held on. She was not alone anymore. But when she looked around, there was nobody else in sight. Intently, she listened to the foreign footfalls. They were very quiet, almost soundless. Yet, after years of training, her ears did not fail to make out their location.

Perhaps it was only a servant, going after the early morning's business. But Désirée's curiousity was piqued. She wanted to know who it was. As silently as she could, she changed direction. Very slowly, she crept around the nearest corner, headed straight for the sound. The second she stepped around the bend of the corridor, a loud gasp stopped her dead.

It had not been a servant after all. Instead, a little girl stood in front of her, gawping with her mouth open wide. She was slender and fair-skinned, wearing nothing but a long nightgown. Soft brown curls framed her heart-shaped face and tumbled gently over her bony shoulders. She could be no older than nine. Yet the young one's bearing instilled her with an air of authority, way beyond her years.

Her large corn blue eyes beheld Désirée with intense intrigue as though they were ogling a rare flower.

"Are you a fairy?" she inquired in a high, earnest voice. There was little doubt that she expected a prompt answer.

"I ... no," bemused Désirée shook her head. It was a most absurd question, like only a child could ask it. "Why would I be a fairy?"

The girl allowed herself a victorious smile, for successfully confusing her. "Everyone knows that fairies sneak around the house before dawn, seeking to frighten little children."

Désirée snorted in quiet amusement. The girl before her seemed absolutely serious about fairies being common knowledge. "Well, I am not everyone."

"Who are you then?" the little one demanded with an impatient frown.

"I am Désirée," she said, "and might I inquire your name as well?"

"My name is Anne de Bourbon, firstborn daughter of Prince Henri de Condé", the child responded, thoughtfully scrunching up her nose, "so I believe you should bow before me."

Désirée wanted to laugh out loud. She had never seen this much presumptuousness in a person so young before.

"Perhaps," she allowed with a thin smile. Now it was her turn to bewilder the little girl."But what if I am a noble Mademoiselle as well?"

The creases on Anne's forehead deepened. "Well, are you?"

Désirée shrugged. Suddenly she realized that she was not even sure of it herself. At yesterday's dinner, nothing much had been said about the issue. Neither by her mother, nor her uncle. "I do not really know."

"Then let's pretend that you are," the little one conceded at last. Unexpectedly, she curtsied. Next she looped her hand around Désirée's arm unasked. "Would Mademoiselle do me the honour of visiting the nursery, as my guest?"

After a moment's thought, Désirée nodded. She had no wish to upset the young lady; so it was her best bet. "I would, Mademoiselle." Silly as it felt to her, the invitation promised to be a much better distraction from her rampant thoughts than aimlessly wandering the halls.

With quick steps, Anne led her towards the rooms at the end of a short side corridor. Once inside, she stopped, allowing Désirée to have a glance around.

Désirée took a cursory look at her new surroundings. They stood in the middle of a large playroom with sizeable windows that would flood it with sunlight by day. But now only a faint, orange-grey light filtered inside, reinforced by a handful of candles flickering on the light blue plaster walls. She wondered who had lit them, for Anne was not yet tall enough to have done it.

In the corners of the vast room toys in all shapes and sizes lay gathered in neat piles and stacks. Not far from the front windows, a brightly painted rocking horse caught the pre-dawn light. For a split second, she felt tempted to sit on it. But, as the little one claimed the perch upon the wooden creature's back, Désirée settled for a nearby chair instead.

Thoughtfully she gazed at Anne. It seemed odd that a young girl of her standing should be left here, all on her own. Désirée had taken about a day to realize that it was nearly impossible to avoid attendance in this house. Yet here they were, completely alone.

"You have a governess, do you not?" she inquired with a frown.

Anne responded with a mischievous grin. "Of course, but she is quite useless at this hour... still fast asleep." She twisted a strand of her thick curly hair around a finger. "But my little brother is just as useless. He's still a baby and all he ever does is sleep, cry or be sick."

Désirée chuckled quietly at Anne's views. "I think that is what babies do."

"Yes," Anne huffed, "Still, I am bored, alone with him. I wished Louis was here. But he is away to school..."

"Is he your brother, too?" Désirée inquired quite needlessly.

And the little one rolled her eyes at the daftness of her question. "Of course he is. And he used to wake me at this hour, to play." The girl paused to study her intently, a little scowl forming on her face. "You seem to know nothing at all. Have you not been educated?"

"I have been," Désirée merely sighed at so much impertinence. "When I still lived in China..."

Her revelation made Anne gape open-mouthed. When she had regained her wits, she was wrinkling her nose. "You are making that up . . . "

"Hardly," she replied with a half-smile. "There are also monks and priests in China and they have taught me all I ever needed to know: Latin, Greek, sword fighting and the like."

"Fine, I believe you," Anne regarded her with her bony arms folded in front of her chest. "For a moment I thought that you were, in fact, an uneducated peasant."

Désirée's mouth fell open. There had been no venom in this childish remark; yet it left her dumbfounded. This young lady's airs were definitely not something she had seen before. At this age she herself had been brought up to honour and respect every living being without condition. Now she found herself groping for a kind response. But she never got to utter a single word.

"Anne, your cousin is hardly a peasant."

Désirée winced. The booming male voice sounded very familiar: It was Prince Henri. Within a split second, she slipped into a deep curtsey. Something about him made her feel as though she had been caught red-handed, doing things she was not supposed to do.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Anne blanch. Very obviously, she felt the same. "Papa," she murmured. "I..."

"You were not thinking, I know," the prince retorted. Suddenly, Désirée noticed that he was holding out a hand to her. "Stop doing that", he whispered under his breath.

Perplexed at the prince's reaction, she grasped it and allowed him to pull her to her feet.

"You should apologize," he went on with a shrewd look at his daughter.

"Of course, Papa." Anne's cheeks were flushed a deep shade of scarlet. She knew very well that she had done wrong. Without further need of an invitation, she bowed her curly head at Désirée. "Forgive me, Mademoiselle."

Désirée acknowledged the gesture with a warm smile. She could not help but pity her little cousin. "There is nothing to forgive."

Now Henri was content as well. "That is better. However, I have to wonder why you are up at this ungodly hour. We should put you back into bed."

Her father's suggestion did not sit well with Anne. The disgruntled look on her face spoke volumes. Yet she knew she had to admit defeat. Without protest, she allowed him to scoop her up into his arms.

Before he carried off his daughter, Henri turned to Désirée. "Wait here. I will be back shortly."

She merely gave him a meek nod certain to receive a thorough scolding upon his return. After all, she had no business skulking about the nursery.

Though the feared reprimand never came. When the prince reappeared he regarded her with a thin-lipped smile. "Why does it not surprise me to find you awake at four in the morning?"

"I would not know," Désirée muttered. Deep down, she was still weary of him.

"It seems to be the curse of our family," he went on gesturing for her to sit back down. "Please. We are not at court."

He had a point. Now that she had a chance to study her uncle more closely, she realized that he was still in his dressing gown as well.

"Or it might be guilt," Désirée admitted, staring at her hands. They were trembling.

Henri made no immediate reply. Instead he pulled up a chair for himself. "You may be right." Unexpectedly, his palm came to rest on top of her hands. "The burden of illegitimacy is a wicked thing."

Désirée gasped. Wide-eyed she stared at him. "What would a prince know of it?"

To her great bewilderment he laughed out loud. "You really do not know, do you?"

"Know what?" she questioned. His wry expression confused her even more.

"That we share the same fate. It is an open secret," Henri sighed. "You most certainly have more Bourbon blood in you than I ever did. I can understand that your mother has held back about it; but I am surprised that the Musketeers have not told you."

Désirée felt her jaw drop in shock. "They know...?"

"Everybody knows. Yet nobody understands. I assume people kept telling you that you were not to blame as well?" he asked seemingly certain of her answer.

"Constantly," she admitted. "But they always made me feel as though the opposite was true." Oftentimes, some of her father's brethren had been very cruel to her, intent to make her pay for the unspeakable sin running in her blood. Her father had fought them, for her suffering had broken his heart. But he had not always been there to save her. Even though years had passed these memories still stung... Suddenly a single tear dropped into her lap. Full of embarrassment, she rubbed her eye.

Henri, however, had already noticed. "I did not mean to upset you."

"I am not upset... just angry," Désirée faced away, struggling to calm herself.

"I understand," he said at last. "But at least they were honest with you. In my case, the present king's father simply decreed it did not happen. Yet, the court has never stopped talking behind my back."

When she looked back at him, his face had changed. Cold, seething anger had clenched his jaw. Carefully Désirée reached for his balled fist. "What happened to your father?" she asked quietly before she got a chance to stop herself.

"Hanged shortly after I was born with my mother nearly sharing his fate," Henri muttered without looking up. "I hope your father had a better death."

"It was slow and painful," Désirée sighed. "And it was I who took the punishment."

Alarmed the prince looked up. "What do you mean?"

Before she knew what she was doing, Désirée grasped his hand and slipped it beneath the back of her smock. "They caned me, not a week later. I was accused of dishonouring him by claiming my rightful place as his daughter."

"Who did this?" Henri snapped. "I will make them pay."

"They are already paying," she stated breathlessly. His sudden outburst had startled her. She had not expected her uncle to sympathize, let alone show any feelings at all.

"Good", he withdrew his hand and stood. Carefully he raised Désirée to her feet as well. "And you can rest assured that it will not happen again."

The determination in his voice left little doubt about that. Yet she wondered whether he would still protect her with such fervour when he found out about the foolish act she had chosen to commit yesterday. Still it felt wrong not to tell him, after her uncle had shown so much honesty.

"I am afraid to tell you this, but illegitimacy is not my only transgression," she confessed in a low voice, biting her lip.

The statement sparked his interest, but not in a good way. He beheld her with an intense frown. "What have you done? Do not tell me you have murdered someone."

"No, of course not," Désirée observed. He was not the first to assume as much and she was becoming fed up with that preposterous notion. Apparently, bastards were also murderers... She bit her lip. Although she had no murder to confess, it made the act no easier. "I have arranged a clandestine meeting with the cardinal."

"And why on earth would you do that?" Henri questioned, more intrigued than upset. Although the warmness had vanished from his voice. It had seeped away within but one sentence. Désirée sensed that one wrong word could endanger everything now.

She sighed struggling to offer a sensible explanation. "I want to know who desired my death. And the man who hired the assassins will not give up the secret. If I do not find out who told him off, I shall live in fear forever."

Her uncle's features had become unreadable now. "This matter should be up to the Musketeers. It is not your place to concern yourself with it."

His thoughtful stare unsettled her. It reduced her to an idiotic child. She could not help but disagree: "If this were about capturing an ordinary criminal, it would indeed not be up to me. But matters are different. The man who tried to kill me was not supposed to know about my return, let alone my mere existence. The cardinal made sure of that once yet, apparently, his little conspiracy has failed..."

"Do you assume that Richelieu already knows?" Henri frowned.

"I hope so, yes," Désirée replied, beholding the prince full of anticipation for his reaction. He seemed to disapprove of her plan and it was not her intention to incur his anger.

"For a moment, I took you for a fool. But this plan is not entirely insensible after all", he conceded after a brief but heavy silence. His stern glare, however, had not disappeared. "Although, next time, you will speak to me first. I cannot afford to endanger my position only because my niece engages my political enemies on a whim."

It was not a request. Désirée sensed that contradicting would be a most dangerous affair now. "As your highness wishes," she murmured with a slight bow of her head. "It is a comfort that he is not only my enemy."

"And, most likely, that is your only safety from his schemes," Henri added. "As long as you have powerful protectors, the cardinal will not dare touch you."

Full of surprise she glanced at him. She had not expected such an expression of favour from her princely uncle. "So I can count you among that number?"

"Of course." Obviously her obtuse question had amused him. "We cannot leave the entire burden to God and Father Martin now, can we?"

"You know him?" Désirée inquired, raising her brows. This was yet another unexpected piece of news. Prince Henri seemed to guard his secrets well, in spite of stating the opposite.

He merely smirked at her enigmatically. "He was one of my tutors. And, through him, I also knew your father. Fleetingly at least..."

"I had no idea," she gasped quietly. Now she was truly baffled. "Then how could the cardinal keep all knowledge about me from you?"

Henri merely shook his head. "I would not know; but, certainly, it happened through a great act of cunning."

"It would seem so." Without her noticing its approach, a shudder crept up her back.

If Richelieu was capable of deceiving a royal prince there was no telling what he could do to her, whenever he chose. And, by meeting him, she had chosen to expose herself to his destructive powers. Never before had Désirée looked at her plan this way. At once, she felt unspeakably stupid. In a struggle to suppress the rising anger at herself, she balled her hands into tight fists, clenching the fabric of her bed gown.

Of course, her sinking heart did not go unnoticed. At once, Henri's finger brushed against her wrist. "It seems as though you need a lesson in choosing the right adversaries," he commented with a lopsided smile. "It is not too late to pull back."

Désirée rolled her eyes. She would not stand down now. "Do I look as though I am a coward?"

"No. And neither would I expect it of you," he replied, carefully unclenching her fist. "You are a Condé after all. No matter how foolhardy our choices, we stand with them until the end."

"Standing is better than running," she replied with quiet relief. At once, she felt very tired. She had made her final choice now. And, with the newfound certainty, sleep had returned to her. "If your highness does not mind, I would like to retire now."

As the prince acknowledged her wish with a nod, she awarded him the smallest of curtsies and turned away.

She had not walked two steps when his deep voice stopped her again. "Désirée."

"Yes, your highness?" When she looked back over her shoulder, there was a slight quiver in her voice she could not control.

For a moment she feared that he had changed his mind. But he had not. "Do not tell your mother. Her mood gets quite unbearable when she is upset."

Désirée had to smile a little without knowing why. "I would not dream of it."

Henri nodded at her. The sparkle in his eye told her that they had an understanding. It connected them both in a conspiracy of unknown proportion. A moment ago, Désirée would have blanched at the mere idea of it. And now, she was simply too tired to care anymore, knowing that her secret plan would be safe, no matter what happened.

xx

Dawn had barely broken over Paris when the Musketeers walked their horses towards the Palais de Condé. Their mood was solemn and nobody was very inclined for a chat. The news of Désirée's secret plans had shocked them all. Now all they could hope to do was to contain the damage she was about to cause. If it was not already too late...

"Do you think we will get to her in time?" D'Artagnan inquired in the speechless silence. Deep concern creased his brow. If they were not, the consequences of her actions could prove fatal.

"I think so," Athos replied, rather glumly, even for his usual standard of untainted realism. As they reached the downtown palace he led them around the back to a side gate that opened into the stable yard. If they were to catch the young woman, here would be their best chance. Certainly, Désirée would not sneak out of the palace's front door. In spite of her grave misjudgment, even she had too much sense for that.

And, indeed, they did not have to wait long. Not ten minutes after their arrival, a shrouded figure appeared in the yard. Porthos was the first to recognize that it was her. As he did, he breathed a ragged sigh of relief: They had not come too late after all.

As Désirée led her saddled horse through the postern gate, she was startled to see them waiting for her. Even though the hood of her coarse woolen cloak hid most of her face, the way her fist clenched around the bridle told them everything they needed to know. She was very nervous, as if she knew exactly that she was about to go wrong.

"Gentlemen," the young woman murmured with a fleeting smile. "What brings you here so early in the day?"

Her feeble attempt at joviality did not fool Athos. "We could ask you the same question," he retorted coolly as he fixed her with a shrewd glare.

After Aramis and D'Artagnan had told him about their chance encounter of yesterday evening he had felt betrayed. At first, he had hoped that Désirée had nothing to do with the dealings his two comrades had witnessed. But now her involvement became unmistakable: She had indeed sent the maid to solicit a meeting with Richelieu, just when the cardinal was most desperate for any chance to destroy her.

"It looks as though you already know," she replied with a deadpan glance right at him. Her innocent pretense at ignorance had evaporated from one second to the next. Now the ice in her defensive tone made even Porthos cringe.

For brief moment Athos felt the urge to scold her. But it was pointless: she was in a state of self-defense. One wrong word would suffice to spark her explosive temper. And then, any chance to talk sensibly would be forfeit for good.

Aramis seemed to sense exactly how he felt. After a brief pause he took matters into his own hands. "We know a few things. And they have worried us," he stated with a frown full of genuine concern. Of them all, her clandestine plans had upset him the most. Now he made no effort to hide his concerns for her wellbeing.

"You need not worry", she replied more gently, in a tone softened by his worried look. "Still, you better stay out of this. It is on my head alone." Quickly, she moved forward, trying to outmaneuver Aramis. But he simply leaped from the saddle and stepped into her way. Before she knew it he seized her horse by the bridle and placed his free hand on her arm.

"I am sorry. This is not how things work. If something happened to you, we would never forgive ourselves," he stated with an unmistakable note of exasperation. Like they all, he was hard-pressed to find out her true intentions. By the looks of it, she was putting herself into a very dangerous position. "Be honest: You are meeting the cardinal, are you not?"

His knowledge hardly fazed Désirée. Although it did make her groan. She nodded slowly, chewing her lower lip. "I have to do it..."

"But why?" D'Artagnan inquired impatiently. A moment ago, Athos had seen him roll his eyes, visibly channelling his annoyance with Désirée's plans. Athos had an inkling of what she sought to find out. And his darkest suspicion proved right.

"Because he is the only one who might know anything about de Courtenay's informer," she replied.

Her idea did not pacify D'Artagnan's sentiment. "And you simply go and ask him? That's stupid, even for your standards."

"It is no news you take me for stupid." There was a dangerous sparkle in Désirée's eyes now, daring D'Artagnan to speak another word, so that he might regret it. But the young man did not even blink at her provocation. "Otherwise you would not have kept the truth from me."

Her accusation sparked an exchange of confused glances. Athos realized that his friends' gazes had come to rest upon him as though he knew what she was talking about. And, in fact, he did not have to think hard to figure it out. This was about her uncle.

"Has he told you then?" he questioned with a frown. So much openness was unlike Henri de Condé, but definitely not beyond him. The prince had always been a man of many surprises. To Athos, it would not even be very surprising if the prince had turned his niece against them, just for the joy of the game.

"He has indeed," Désirée replied flatly, regarding him with an intense glare. "And he was surprised you had not mentioned it to me already."

Next to Désirée Aramis groaned meaningfully. "Yet I doubt that he has told you the whole story. Or did you know that his mother killed your grandfather to hide her act of infidelity?"

"Aramis..." Athos shook his head. Much as this revelation was true it would not help resolve the situation. If his friend was hoping to startle Désirée into silence, his plan was bound to fail.

For now, the young woman appeared calm. But a tremor had come over her body. Any second now, she would fly at him. "Is it true?" she questioned sharply. Her eyes darted around, like those of a caged beast, ready to pounce.

Realizing what he had done Aramis tried to contain the damage he had caused. With cautious gentleness, he grasped her hand. "It is. But please, forgive me for speaking out of turn."

Instead of a reply she snatched away her hand. It happened so quickly that it seemed as though she was about to strike him to the face. "Was it so hard to tell me this before?" she snapped callously.

Now, for the first time, Porthos spoke up. And it was for the better. Another word from Aramis was likely to end in serious injury. "We did not want to upset you. So yes, it was," he admitted with a trace of ruefulness in his voice.

"Well, you have upset me now," Désirée sighed. His words had eased her temper a little, although her glare into Aramis's direction remained unchanged. "And I have upset you."

"Disappointed is more like it," Athos stated. Even though the young woman was beginning to realize her mistake, he would not let her off without voicing his opinion.

Promptly, Désirée's turned to look at him again. She seemed intent on getting the last word. "Whichever. Shall we call it even?"

"If you wish," he replied. "Just see that it does not happen again."

With a nod, she snatched her horse's reins from Aramis's hand and climbed into the saddle without even waiting for his help. Before she spurred it into a walk, she glanced back at them. "Are you coming then?"

They needed no second invitation to mount up. Only Aramis stayed right where he stood. His disinclination to stay in Désirée's presence was more than obvious. "I think I shall check on Evangeline and see that the cardinal has not frightened her too much."

His concern appeared to surprise Désirée. But then, her chamber maid was a pretty woman. After bearing her mistress's anger, she might provide him with some distraction. "I would appreciate that. But, should you lose a single word of my whereabouts to my mother I will punch you hard."

Her threat brought an ironical smirk to his lips. "And what of your lord uncle?"

"Oh, he knows," she stated nonchalantly, surprising them all. The next second, she kicked her horse into motion.

This news left D'Artagnan speechless for a very long moment. As he finally closed up to Athos, he was scowling. "One day with the nobility and she is already conspiring with them..." he observed darkly.

"Give her time", Athos replied calmly. "Eventually, she will realize that it is not the way." He knew that Désirée was smarter than this and he had faith that she would learn her lesson soon enough. Yet, perhaps, she would not learn it without suffering. If she indulged in Henri de Condé's games for too long, getting hurt was inevitable. It was an open secret.


	15. Unexpected Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meeting with the cardinal brings to light some shocking revelations. Will Désirée stand to face them?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone had a great Easter. :) As a belated "egg", here comes the next chapter. for you. Since uni life is still pretty mad on my end, it might take a little bit for the final batch of chapters to reach you. But I hope this one will tide you over. Enjoy the ride! :)

"You can still turn back," Athos stated with great earnestness as he helped her dismount in the old seminary's barren courtyard.

Désirée merely rolled her eyes; she felt guilty about violating his trust. At the same time she was not inclined to show him the extent of those shameful feelings. "You know that I am no coward."

His lip twitched with an odd mix of amusement and disapproval. "And you know there is only a fine line between bravery and idiocy."

"That may be so, but I have made my choice," Désirée quipped in return. This discussion was not helping her resolve; and she wanted it to end.

"Fine then," Athos seemed to understand. To her astonishment, he pulled out his dagger and placed its hilt in her palm. "Here, just in case. But try not to kill him, if you can."

She took the weapon with a grateful nod and slipped it under one of the garters beneath her skirt. "Do not tempt me." As she fished the prayer veil from her saddle bag, she allowed a minute smirk to part her lips. The thought was not entirely unappealing. Yet if the cardinal was dead, she would never find the answers she sought.

With a sigh, Désirée cast one last glance at her three friends. Slowly she backed away towards the appointed meeting point. She was glad that Athos had chosen not to scold her. It was his wrath she had dreaded the most, even more than she feared meeting the cardinal.

xx

Cautiously, Désirée ventured into the old chapel. Its inside lay shrouded in darkness. Only a few specks of light trickled through the dusty stained glass windows, leaving small pools of colour on the cracked marble floor. As she slipped the veil over her hair, she listened closely. There was nothing but silence all around. She was alone. Not even a sneaky man like Richelieu could keep this quiet...

Still her heart was pounding madly now. It made the wait unbearable, keeping her in a state of bated breath. This would not do; she had to calm herself.

With a sigh, Désirée looked around. Her eyes fell on a collection of candles, flickering in the far corner of the cavernous space. Slowly, she walked towards them. Steadying her hand, she reached out to light another. As the flame ignited she knelt on the cold, hard ground. It was time she admitted the wrongs she had done, and sought to return to God's grace. Otherwise her mind would never find peace.

She bent her head over her folded hands. In a voice scarcely above a whisper, she began to say the prayer her father had taught her:

" _Receive, O Lord, all my liberty._  
 _Take my memory, my understanding, and my entire will._  
 _Whatsoever I have or hold, You have given me; I give it all back to You and surrender it wholly to be governed by your will._  
 _Give me only your love and your grace, and I am rich enough ..._ "

" _... and ask for nothing more._ "

An icy chill trickled down Désirée's spine. It was Richelieu and his voice had come from right behind her. How long had he been standing there, eavesdropping?

She fought the reflex to cringe and spin around. Her tremulous lips formed a toneless Amen. Breathing deeply, she made the sign of the cross and stood. When she turned around, the cardinal was sneering. Even without her visible reaction he knew that he had successfully startled her.

"You must be desperate, Mademoiselle," he stated coolly.

"Praying is hardly an act of desperation," she retorted, struggling to keep the trepidation from her words. His obvious derision made her horribly uneasy.

"Asking for a secret meeting however is. I could easily find countless reasons to hold it against you," Richelieu observed. He left no doubt about the seriousness of his intentions. "And, surely, you would not want that. Especially now that you have successfully persuaded the remainder of your treacherous kin to bring your matters before the king."

Désirée narrowed her eyes. Apparently he was not omniscient after all. "Does your eminence seriously believe that my uncle would confer with me first?"

For the blink of an eye, her open admission surprised him. "It would indeed be unlike the prince. One should not expect any such consideration from the son of a murderess."

Désirée did not bat an eyelash at his words. Thanks to Aramis's revelation, they failed to faze her anymore. Instead of showing Richelieu the shock he had hoped to see, she regarded him with a callous glare, showing him how little she cared. "I have not come here to discuss my parentage with you."

"Then why are you here? I am curious," he quipped with a dangerous sharpness to his tone.

He definitely knew more than he let on. So Désirée refused to explain herself. She would look like an utter fool if she did. "A certain matter has sparked my interest. And I believe you have recently gained some vital knowledge about it."

"Have I now?" Richelieu narrowed his eyes. He was visibly disinclined to share his information. That, however, did not deter her in the slightest.

With a sigh, Désirée sat down on the nearest bench. "Let us be honest, your eminence. Monsieur de Courtenay has put an embarrassing mark on your carefully laid-out plans to conceal my existence."

"And he will die for it," the cardinal observed darkly.

"Please," Désirée rolled her eyes. Of course de Courtenay would hang for his transgressions, but not before he had spilled all his knowledge. "Knowing you, you will hardly allow him to take his secrets to the grave."

Something about her statement made him smirk briefly. "That may be so; but it does not mean that I will let you partake in them."

"Because you would never share such information with your enemies?" Désirée replied, unblinking. On the inside, she was sick with fear, afraid that she had risked everything for a meeting that went awry.

"You are unworthy of being my enemy," Richelieu observed. "You are nothing but a nuisance. I could simply flick you away; like a tiny, insignificant speck of dirt." Debasing her like this gave him visible pleasure. But he was exaggerating greatly, in the hope of frightening her.

"Then why am I still here? Could it be that, in fact, you are afraid to touch me?" Désirée questioned tonelessly.

"Do not be ridiculous," Richelieu awarded her a hard glare, teeming with contempt. "The first minister of France is not afraid of a little girl who does not know her place."

He would not call her a little girl again. Abruptly, she stood. With slow steps she approached him, until she was close enough to touch his arm. "But, perchance, you are afraid of this little girl's knowledge," she stated, firmly holding his gaze. "Let me suggest you a deal: Tell me what I want to know, and I will ease your troubled mind."

Visibly repulsed, the cardinal freed himself of her touch. Désirée had hit a nerve. It took him a long moment to respond. "You drive a hard bargain, Mademoiselle," he stated with a deadpan stare. It was no compliment. "But why not. I do not have all day to listen to your annoying pleas after all."

Désirée's eyes widened with surprise. She had not expected him to relent so easily. "Then just tell me who informed on your prisoner," she demanded after containing her bemusement.

"Someone very close to home," the cardinal replied with a fleeting sneer. "Perhaps you know a Father Jérôme de Courtenay?"

A gasp escaped her. This time, she had no way of stopping it. She shuddered. Father Jérôme, the man who had contrived her execution, mere days after her father's death. Involuntarily, Désirée clasped a hand over her mouth to stop herself from shrieking. She had not known this despicable monster to have a brother. The thought alone made her feel sick.

"How on earth did he know about me?" she breathed, shaken with horror.

"Your grandmother was a spiteful woman. Keeping her imprisoned for life would have served us all the best," Richelieu commented. It was no response to her question, yet Désirée got the message.

There had been no need for him to reinforce his disgust of her new family yet again. Although doing so seemed to give him a perverse amount of delight. Désirée loathed him for it so much that the sentiment blew away the stupefaction that had held her in its firm grip. "I wonder how your eminence can speak of these affairs with such contempt and still assume that I am most eager to enter the circles of the nobility. I am not cut from the same rotten cloth."

"Your motives hardly matter to me, Mademoiselle," Richelieu retorted mockingly, his glower teeming with cold contempt. "And I believe I have met my end of the bargain. It is time for you to fulfill yours."

Désirée sighed. "Very well. There is, however, not much to say. My father has only ever imparted one thing on me." She paused. At once, memories of this moment flooded her mind. It had been one of the last thing her father had ever told her; on his deathbed, minutes before he passed away.

Her hesitation irked the cardinal even more. The fact that she was struggling with an onrush of unwanted tears failed to move him. "Well?"

Angry at herself, she swatted them away with the back of her hand. "He said 'Pray for Armand, for God will know his many sins. It is the Lord's prerogative to judge him. All that we can do is to offer suffrage, to shorten his time in purgatory.' "

Désirée watched the last remains of colour leave the cardinal's face. In the chapel's gloom, she could not tell whether fury, or awe, had gripped him. Whichever it was, she felt nothing but indifference towards his reaction. All she knew was that she had to leave this place at once. "Believe it or not," she murmured very quietly, "but I have prayed for your eminence's soul ever since."

Unsure what she was doing, Désirée knelt down. Before he could snatch his hand away, she grasped it and kissed his ring. "I bear you no ill will. And neither did my father when he died. So I beseech you to leave me be now."

Richelieu's chest was heaving with anger. The second Désirée let go of his fingers and stood, his hand clenched into a tight fist. He seemed ready to explode with fury.

Before he had time to react, she fled the way she had come, putting herself out of his reach. Struggling not to run, she rushed towards the chapel's portal. Only when her fingers brushed against its cold brass handle did she perceive his words. They were icy and unemotional.

"I might, if you will keep your Jesuit watchdog chained up in future. But do not believe that you are safe. I shall watch your every step. Slip and I will make you fall for good."

"I understand," Désirée replied. Suppressing one last shudder she dipped a finger into the receptacle of holy water. When she touched it to her forehead, it felt like a cleansing liberation. Hurriedly she finished the sign of the cross, thanking God that she would leave this place unharmed.

By the time she finally left the chapel, Désirée was trembling and heaving with tears. She did not know how she had survived this precarious encounter. Nor did she recall walking back to her friends. Yet when she beheld the Musketeers, she sank to the ground with joyful relief.

Mere seconds later, Porthos was at her side. He raised her to her feet and wrapped his arms around her.

"Are you all right?" he questioned, full of concern.

"I am", Désirée gasped, her voice nearly failing from breathless relief. "It is all over now..."

xx

Désirée was back on her feet before Porthos knew it. Yet she gladly grasped the arm he offered her. It was a good sign.

"How did it go?" he inquired cautiously while leading her back to their mounts.

For a moment, Désirée's only response was a heartfelt sigh. The meeting had distraught her a great deal, probably even more than she would ever admit. With a quick flick of her hand, she plucked the prayer veil off her ebony hair. "Well enough", she murmured when they had come within earshot of the others.

As she brushed past Athos's horse, she bent over and fished his dagger from underneath her skirts. With a wordless smile of gratitude, she passed it back to him.

Even though Athos himself was no man of many words, her unusual curtness made his eyebrows shoot up in bemusement. "So, did you find the answers you were seeking?" he questioned.

"It seems so," Désirée answered, averting her gaze. "And the cardinal thoroughly enjoyed putting the fear of God into me."

This unfeeling observation sent a shudder of anger through Porthos. Out of reflex, he balled his fist. If he could, he would punch Richelieu for this. "Did he harm you?" he demanded.

But she just waved away his concerns. "Do not worry, he is smarter than that," she added more casually. By the way Désirée's posture was relaxing now, he realized that she had already begun to get over whatever fright Richelieu had instilled in her. "Would you mind giving me a hand up?"

"Of course not. Come here," instead of simply giving her a small push to get into the saddle, he scooped her up and sat her on the horse.

His unexpected onslaught of improper cheekiness provoked a chuckle. In revenge, Désirée ruffled his curls from her perch atop the bay mare. "Thank you kindly, Monsieur." Suddenly playful, she rolled her eyes at his comrades.

Something about her gesture made D'Artagnan snort. "You are the happiest when everyone does exactly what you want, aren't you?"

It was no criticism, but the sharp-tongued humour Désirée enjoyed most. She laughed out loud, yet she could not hide her surprise. "Does this mean little Monsieur D'Artagnan forgives me my recklessness?" she quipped.

"I might, Mademoiselle, if you tell me that it was worth the trouble," he replied with a wink.

Désirée met his demand with an incredulous shake of her head. "Why can't you men just ask a simple question?" she sighed as she coaxed her mare into a walk.

"We can," Athos stated as he fell in beside her. "Who did it?"

There was a long silence. From behind, Porthos saw a notable cringe ripple down Désirée's back. No doubt, his comrade had just asked the question she dreaded the most. Now she had to answer it.

Hanging her head, she sighed. "To use the cardinal's words: 'Do you happen to know a Father Jérôme de Courtenay?' "

"What?" Not a second after the words had left Désirée's mouth, shock gripped Porthos. Spurring forward, he brought his horse alongside hers. "Are you saying that...?"

"... he has been close to me, all these years, without anyone noticing?" Désirée finished for him, a shadow of anger clouding over her pretty face. "It is ironic, is it not?"

Porthos clenched his teeth in a fresh surge of anger "If I ever encounter this whoreson, I will hurt him."

"No," startled by his outburst, Désirée gazed at him. "If anything happens to him, Richelieu will be looking for a scapegoat. And now that he has told me, you can guess who that would be. I will give you a hint: it is not you."

Upon her final words a note of cold sharpness had seeped into her tone. Before Porthos got to utter another word, she rode on. He cursed himself for giving heed to his anger; it had upset her even more.

As she had moved out of earshot, he realized that Athos's gaze was resting on him. "She is right," his friend admonished him quietly. "It was very smart of the cardinal to tell her."

"Yes," Porthos admitted with a scowl. "What a mess..."

And the mess seemed to have no end. Just when they wanted to move on, he realized that Désirée and D'Artagnan had stopped up ahead. For a moment, the sight put Porthos's senses on alert. But then he saw a familiar figure approach. It was Aramis, riding at a quick trot.

Judging from his comrade's speed, something was not right. Eager to find out what, Porthos sped up to join them. When he got there, Aramis had just halted. Slightly out of breath, he addressed Désirée; a frown lining his brow. "You better get yourself back to the palace, quickly."

"Did something happen?" Still not quite recovered from the last agitation, she gawped at him with a palpable sense of dread. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes, but ... not quite", Aramis replied. Realizing that he had upset her, he offered her an apologetic half-smile. "Your mother has asked for you."

Désirée groaned. It was clear he would not tell her, even if he knew what was the matter. "My goodness ... has she found out where I went?"

"I would not know," Aramis shrugged. "But she said it was urgent. So you better hurry."

"You are right," without further hesitation, she turned around in the saddle. "Porthos, would you mind riding ahead with me?"

When Désirée's amber eyes found him, he realized that her question awaited no answer. So he just signaled his understanding with a nod and followed on.

Upon passing Aramis, he stopped briefly. "Do you really not know?" he questioned curiously. It was not exactly uncommon for his friend to possess more knowledge than he shared.

But Aramis merely shook his head. "I seriously do not. But the princess sounded impatient enough. Making her wait might end badly."

With noble ladies, it usually did. So Porthos sighed and cantered on, following Désirée, who had already vanished around the next corner. He wondered what kind of surprise expected them at the Palais de Condé. It was probably none of the pleasant kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prayer: The Suscipe, according to St. Ignatius of Loyola aka "The Jesuit Prayer".


	16. Hoping Against Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Désirée returns home, her mother greets her with a big surprise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, here come the next two chapters of the story. And with these, we are finally entering the home stretch. The conclusion of Désirée's story is not far away now and I hope you will enjoy the last bit of the ride.   
> xx Ness

16\. Hoping Against Hope

The moment Désirée set foot into the entrance hall, she had felt her mother's displeasure.

"I see you have been out," the princess stated flatly, the moment they were face to face, standing in the center of the large hall. Her words were spoken neutrally and without anger. Yet their meaning was clear. And they stung, hard enough to make Désirée grasp Porthos's hand.

After a split second, she let it go again. She straightened her posture and gazed back at Éloïse defiantly. This display of ill favour would not cow her. "Can I not go out to see my friends without seeking your permission?"

"Of course you can, child," her mother sighed. The scowl on her face softened, to be replaced by a look of defeat. She had realized her mistake. "Today, however, it could not have been more ill-timed."

"How so?" Désirée frowned. "Has something happened?"

Her mother sighed once again. "It has indeed. There has been word from the Louvre. The king will be receiving you this afternoon."

Full of incredulity, Désirée gasped. She spun around at Porthos, who looked just as disbelieving. "That was quick..." he muttered under his breath.

And it was. No doubt, Richelieu had had his fingers in this. These summons could only mean one of two things: Either the cardinal had finally stopped dissuading the king and so that he had finally listened to her uncle. Or she was in more trouble than ever before...

Slowly, Désirée's attention returned to her mother. With care, she banished all trepidation from her face. "I assume I better get dressed then", she observed quietly.

"Yes, unless you want to attend court dressed like a slattern," Éloïse rolled her eyes at the needless comment. "I am only glad that Monsieur Aramis was here and I could send him to fetch you back in time. Yet I wonder what exactly he was doing here."

A hard look followed her words. Was she suspecting something after all? Struggling to look as ignorant as possible about Aramis's business at the palace, Désirée ventured to attempt an innocent smile. "What does he usually do?" she quipped.

"Oh", her mother brought out, followed by the briefest of laughs. "In that case, young Evangeline is a very lucky woman."

Behind her, Porthos snorted, just before breaking out into an unstoppable chuckle. Quickly, Désirée stepped on his foot.

"Please," she whispered, "Not now. Would you go and tell the others?"

"Of course. I am sorry." Still a little startled at her move, he gently touched her arm. "Will you be all right?"

Désirée gave him a small nod. "I should be; don't worry." Slowly, she detached herself from him and made for the stairs. By now, she knew the way to her rooms.

In a rush, she ascended the ample marble steps. She had been away all morning and there was not much time left to get dressed. It felt bad to burden Evangeline with the strenuous task of making up for her absence. Her poor maid had suffered enough already. On top of the stairwell, though, Désirée's hastiness avenged itself:

Lost in thought, she crashed into someone who had just turned the corner, about to descend. The impact stunned her so much that she dared not look up at whomever she had assailed. As she finally did, she flushed in shame. It was Henri.

"Forgive me, your highness," she murmured, reflexively trying to curtsy.

But her uncle seemed surprisingly at ease with the little accident. "Judging from your speed, you have had a good morning, have you not?" he said. Quickly, he disentangled himself from her, without showing a single hint of emotion.

"You could say so,", Désirée replied with some caution, afraid her mother might overhear.

As she walked on, she felt his hand on her shoulder. "I assume you have found your answers", he whispered into her ear.

"I believe so", she retorted in the same hushed tone. "Might we talk about it later?"

"Naturally. Until then, we might have yet another issue dealt with." For a second, the ghost of a smile echoed through his voice. He seemed confident that the king would do his bidding.

Désirée, however, did not dare to think of it. "Let us hope so," she stated absent-mindedly. The idea of going to court on this very day weighed heavy on her mind, more than she dared admit.

Quickly she moved on. All at once, she wanted to be alone with her fears. Ever since this morning, she seemed to go from one shocking moment to the next. It surprised her how she kept up without breaking down in tears. Yet, perhaps, Désirée would not have to worry about crying anymore soon enough.

xx

She had preached reconciliation to him, as though she was a Jesuit herself. The thought alone left a bitter taste in Richelieu's mouth. Her behaviour dispelled every doubt about the misguided creature she was, entirely shaped and indoctrinated by her father's order.

Her pious chatter about divine judgment amounted to hubris. Who did Désirée de Sauveterre think she was? A saint? She had no right to pray for God's mercy on his behalf. And how could she, unbeknownst of his sins? There was only one answer to this: She had tried to trick him into believing she knew nothing. And she had failed.

Disgusted, the cardinal dusted off his red velvet sleeves, as though to brush off the rotten whiff of her touch. When he boarded his carriage he nearly succumbed to the urge of returning to his palace, for a change of clothes. Time, however, was short. The king was already expecting him at the Louvre.

Richelieu knew of Louis's intention of meeting with Condé to discuss his treacherous niece's legitimation. There was still time to stop this madness. The promise he had given no half hour ago would not stand in his way now. Nobody tricked him without bearing the consequences. Since Mademoiselle was unaware of her failure to convince him, they would hit her with even greater fierceness.

By the time the carriage pulled into the Louvre's yard, the cardinal had formed a plan: He would stick to the truth, nothing more, nothing less. Since Condé would be involved, wild accusations were no option. The prince would see right through them. Yet he could not fend off the truth of Father de Sauveterre's depravity. And it certainly was disgusting enough to sway his royal cousin.

With an air of aloofness, Richelieu gathered his robes about himself and stepped to the ground. As he swept towards the palace gate, the sight of a familiar face gave him pause. Condé was already here. The prince came towards him with brisk steps. He was dressed in his usual court finery and wore an impassive expression. But, certainly, Henri was anything but pleased to see him.

"Your eminence." He greeted him with nothing more than a shrewdly raised brow. The gesture conveyed his annoyance with unmistakable clarity.

"Your highness." Almost mockingly, Richelieu bowed. Knowing the prince, he was certainly aware of his niece's secret endeavours. And they unnerved him without doubt. "I had not expected to find you here at this hour."

Full of disdain, Condé rolled his eyes. "Neither have I expected you. Is it not a little early in the day to start scheming?"

This was a pitiful jape for the prince. No doubt, he was beside his usual, brash self today. "As you should know, Monsieur, affairs of state never rest." The cardinal paused to pass him a shrewd glare. "I trust your niece is well?"

There was no immediate reply. For an instant, it felt as though his words had made Henri tremble on the inside, rendering him speechless. "Your eminence's concern for her is touching. Although, perhaps, you should rather be concerned about your own well-being. It can be quite unhealthy for a minister to keep his king waiting."

With that, Condé spun on his heel. He took off towards the Louvre's gardens with unexpected nonchalance, acting as though their little exchange of pleasantries had never occurred.

Yet Richelieu knew better. His presence here had given the prince a thorough fright. If his luck continued to unravel in this way, he might yet thwart the disgusting scheme to ennoble de Sauveterre's bastard girl.

xx

"I cannot tell you how sorry I am," Désirée sighed as Evangeline brushed out her hair. When the brush hit a tangle, she winced. She could not help but wonder whether this was her maidservant's way of taking revenge.

"It is alright, Mademoiselle," the young woman assured her. Gently she worked her way through the mass of long, black tresses, until they took on a silky sheen. "But I am glad you sent Monsieur Aramis to look after me. His visit gave me great comfort."

Désirée rolled her eyes, careful to avert her face from the mirror, so Evangeline would not see. Now was not a good time to admit that the whole business had been his idea. "He has an open heart towards the woes of beautiful women," she observed full of honesty, reinforcing her words with a brief smile.

"I am hardly beautiful, Mademoiselle," the maid contested almost sullenly. "And I wonder why he is not courting you instead."

"Aramis ... courting me?" Désirée waved away the mere notion. Only a dolt would confuse Aramis's kindness with courtship. Caring about her, and even saving her life, hardly made him her lover. "He has better ladies to choose from," she murmured. "Besides, my father cautioned me against this sort of love. It is dangerous and creates great misery."

Her revelation provoked Evangeline to utter an involuntary, misplaced giggle. "These are harsh views. When was Mademoiselle planning to notify poor Monsieur Porthos of them?"

"What?" startled Désirée spun around to gawp at the young woman. She had not known her for a week, yet Porthos's affections were no secret to her. "Why does everyone think he is my paramour? He knows very well that I do not get involved with men."

At that, Evangeline groaned quietly, as though her words had conveyed some sort of idiocy. "Sadly, knowledge and sentiments are not always in accord."

She had a point. Désirée nodded, struggling against a suddenly rising sense of ruefulness. Perhaps she should have a word with Porthos after all. She had inflicted grief on so many people already. Breaking the Musketeer's gentle heart was the last thing she wanted.

The thought unleashed a torrent of hurtful feelings. Ice-cold, it washed over her, making her cringe in unseen agony. With a hard crash, her palms hit the tabletop. It stung, but the pain snapped her out of this dark reverie.

Behind her, Evangeline jumped from the loud, banging noise. "Goodness, Mademoiselle, are you quite alright?"

"I am not sure," she replied with a groan. Ever since returning to the palace, she had felt strange: Nervous unease kept turning her stomach to the point of sickness. She hardly even managed to curb her body's constant urge to shudder.

Evangeline seemed to sense her perturbed state of mind. Her hand came to rest on Désirée's shoulder, giving it the gentlest of squeezes. Wordlessly she picked up a comb and let her nimble fingers glide through Désirée's sleek hair once more. With admirable speed she piled layer after layer at the crown of her head until they formed a soft, billowing updo.

"Either way, Mademoiselle, now you look pretty." With care, she plucked out a few strands and ran them through the curling iron.

Désirée suppressed a wince. "If you say so," she muttered. Suddenly irritated, she pushed away Evangeline's hand. The hot iron would never cease to unsettle her. She wanted it as far away from her face as possible.

Slowly she stood. Traversing the dressing room, she approached the full-length mirror on the far wall. From the glass, a stranger gazed back at her. Startled, Désirée froze where she stood. Her fist dug into the sleek, pale blue silk of her skirt. After a moment, her hand travelled on to finger the heavy, rust-coloured brocade of her overdress. What had happened to her?

Absent-mindedly she played with a corkscrew curl that grazed the side of her face. It felt just as surreal as the rest of her appearance. A sudden flicker in the mirror interrupted her thoughts. Someone had just entered the room. From where she stood, she could not see who it was. Startled she wheeled around. But it was only her mother.

Désirée sighed in relief. "You gave me a fright, Madame." In an onrush of puzzlement she studied the princess's pale, round face. It was not as serene and aloof as usual. Something was troubling her. "Is there anything I can do for you?" she ventured cautiously.

"I... yes," Princess Éloïse lowered her head to thoughtfully gaze at the floor. When she looked back up, a sombre mixture of sadness and anger had crept into her expression. "It is hard, but must tell you that I feel betrayed."

Incredulous about these unexpected words, Désirée frowned. Had her mother found out what had occurred this morning? Secrets seemed to have a short life expectancy in this house. "I do not understand," she probed, mindful to keep a straight face. "Have I displeased you in any way?"

"Displeased?" the princess spoke the word as though she was tasting it, trying to see if it expressed her sentiment. In the end she cast it off with a tiny twitch of her mouth. "No, you have horrified me. You have not been here for two full days, yet you are already in league with your uncle."

Désirée's jaw dropped. She knew. "What has he told you?"

"Nothing of consequence. Yet I sense when my brother is onto something. Why else would he have sought you out in the small hours of the morning?"

"You have been spying on me," Désirée half-closed her eyes. The fact did not even surprise her in the slightest.

The princess shook her head. "I would not call it spying. Although the servants will report unusual occurrences such as this."

Désirée groaned, suppressing an onrush of anger. This lack of trust filled her with great contempt. That her mother had to defend it worsened the revelation's bitter sting. "What they cannot report though is that has been a mere coincidence."

"That is what you may think," the princess eyed her shrewdly. Apparently she refused to believe in Prince Henri's guilelessness."So, what did he ask of you?"

"Nothing," Désirée averted her face, absently plucking at a loose thread at the edge of her bodice. She hoped that her pretense of detachment would dissuade her mother from asking more pointless questions. But it did not. She felt her eyes burning into her back. In the end it was Désirée who surrendered. "Fine. It was me who asked something of him."

Princess Éloïse received the admission with a glare. It displeased her. Though now, she finally stopped questioning her. "Go on," she demanded instead, in a dangerously quiet tone that allowed no refusal.

Désirée bit her lip. She picked her words carefully now, struggling not to break the solemn promise of secrecy she had given Henri. "I had to finish my father's business. It was not safe to do it on my own, so I confided in my lord uncle. He had the means to protect me if matters went awry. Luckily we did not need them. And now, my father can rest in peace..."

She had not wanted to utter this final sentence. When she did, the memory of her father's last moments brought tears to her eyes. Bravely she wiped them away with her sleeve, but new tears kept coming. They soaked her whole face, threatening to drip on her gown.

Startled, the princess fished a lace handkerchief from her bosom and began to scrub at Désirée's cheeks. She was uncertain whether her mother did it out of compassion or out of concern for the fine silks.

"Stop it," annoyed Désirée swatted away her hand. After all the distrust she did not want mercy now. It felt false.

"I am so sorry," the princess murmured. At last, she stowed away the handkerchief. "How could I assume you to be treacherous when you have been loyal instead?" After a moment, her cupped palm stroked the side of Désirée's face. "Can you forgive me?"

This time she did not push her mother away. "I forgive you," she conceded very quietly. "But you must accept that I have to keep some things to myself. They belong to a past that is best forgotten."

Princess Éloïse looked shocked. Clearly she had not expected to hear such harsh truths from her daughter. Although, after an instant of stupour, she registered it with a grave nod. "I must indeed. Only a fool could deny your past. There is, however, one thing I cannot accept."

"What is that?" Désirée questioned. Her eyes widened with apprehension. She did not know what was to come. Surely this would not be pleasant.

"That face," her mother stated with a sigh. "We need to make it presentable again before going to court. Come here." Unexpectedly she grasped Désirée's hands and led her back to the dressing table.

Désirée hesitated. She had no idea what had just overcome her mother. Confused she glanced at Evangeline. Her maid seemed just as bemused but managed to encourage her with a benevolent shrug.

She sat down, suppressing her apprehension. Her glance wandered between her mother's hands and the powder jars on the table. "Please, do not make me look like a ghost..." she murmured to herself.

As Princess Éloïse picked up the quiet plea, she laughed. "Oh no, child. You are pale enough as it is. And besides, it would be most unseemly to paint a young lady's face."

Désirée watched her fingertip wander into the small receptacle of deep red cochenille powder. As her travelled on to touch her lips, she winced as though someone had slapped her square across the face.

"There," the princess said quietly, torn between amusement and the need to soothe her daughter. "That does it."

Once more, she pulled out the lace handkerchief. This time she pressed it into Désirée's palm. "Dry your eyes, dear."

Désirée obeyed. As she had blotted the last tears from the corners of her eyes, she gazed at her reflection in the mirror. Just as before she hardly recognised herself. She sighed. "Father would not approve of all this dressing-up. He would find it very vain..."

"So he would," Slowly her mother shook her head. At once she sounded wistful. "God bless his honest soul."

"Do you miss him?" Désirée inquired gingerly.

"I will miss Jean-Marie for every day of my life," the princess replied. Her fingers closed around a pink silk rose that lay on the table. With care, she pinned it into Désirée's hair. "And you will always remind me of him. He has brought you up in his image."

It was not quite true. Her father had been a resolute man; kind and yet always in control of his feelings. She, in turn, felt herself failing on both counts. "He tried. Yet I am not him. I am sorry to disappoint you, Madame," she contested quietly.

"You are not." Affectionately, Éloïse caressed her hair. "Only tread carefully with your uncle in future. He can be a dangerous man, should you displease him."

Désirée moaned. She appreciated the warning but did not like the patronizing tone in which her mother lectured her. "Is there anything else you want me to remember?"

"Behave yourself at court." Content with her handiwork, the princess moved over to Désirée's left, taking a careful hold of her hand. "And it would not hurt if you tried to smile a little."

Désirée spun around to frown at her. "What about? This business is far from over, yet. As long as matters are not concluded, smiling would only express vanity."

The princess sucked in a startled breath. "My goodness, dear. You are your father's daughter after all. He has obviously put more than a little Jesuit into you."

"Do you disapprove?" Désirée rolled her eyes at the needless observation.

"Not at all. Come here." Without warning her mother crouched down beside her and pulled her into a tight hug. "This family needs a pious soul to pray for its many sinners."

These words sent a shudder down Désirée's spine. She did not know why. All she knew was that she was afraid to fail her mother at court. The princess appeared to overlook her countless weaknesses. But soon, she might fail to hide them from the rest of the world. "And who will pray for me?" she whispered.

"You will not require any prayers, for God will be on your side," the princess noted calmly.

The idea caused Désirée to chuckle with bitterness. "Sadly, I doubt that." Shakily, she pulled away from her mother's arms and stood. She knew these words were meant to be an encouragement. Yet instead, they had worsened her fears. Now she dreaded meeting the king even more. It felt as though only a divine intervention could save her from destroying her new family's exaggerated hopes.


	17. A Court Game

17\. A Court Game

The white mare came to a crunching halt on the gravel in front of the Louvre. When the rider shook off the hood of her lustrous violet silk cloak, and turned to gaze at them, Athos rolled his eyes. Who else would be careless enough to ride astride in a court gown but Désirée de Sauveterre...

Grumbling inwardly he approached her mount and grabbed its bridle. Personally, her recklessness amused him, but he doubted the Condé family shared his twisted sense of humour. He did not even want to think of the king's reaction if he heard of it.

His three comrades had followed in his tow. They, too, smirked and shook their heads in mild puzzlement. D'Artagnan was the first to find his wits.

"Mademoiselle," he greeted her with a playful nod at her footwear. "Are you sure you want to attend a royal audience in those boots?"

Désirée snorted. "Of course not... give me a moment." Bending over backwards, she reached into the horse's saddle bag. When she pulled out her hand, she was holding a pair of finely embroidered silk slippers. Without much ceremony, she slid her feet from the stirrups and tugged off her riding boots. One after the other, they dropped into the dirt.

Athos felt Porthos stir behind him. "Oh for goodness sake, woman..." his friend muttered before moving forward to pick them up. While he scrambled at her mare's hooves, Désirée sat cross-legged in the saddle. With an air of placid amusement she laced her shoes. As she was finished, Aramis was already waiting to help her dismount.

With a quiet click of his tongue, he lifted her down. "You are early, Mademoiselle," he observed while helping her lose the cloak. "Should you not be riding in your mother's carriage?"

"And listen to an endless lectures on court protocol and manners?" Désirée groaned. "Absolutely not, Monsieur."

She seemed at ease, but her nonchalant demeanour barely concealed her nervousness. Athos saw her fists clench around her skirts, her nails clawing at the fabric. With a toneless sigh, he handed her horse to a groom. He could not deny the concern he felt for her. Taking a few quick steps forward, he joined her and Aramis. There was no point in trying to soothe Désirée; she would only begrudge him the attempt. So he merely offered her his arm. After all, Treville had ordered them to escort her to the king.

Wordlessly, she detached her hand from the dress and looped her arm around his elbow. Ever so slightly, she trembled. Her eyes, however, conveyed a message of gratitude for his offer of physical support. "I am glad you are here," she said quietly, so that only he could hear. Obviously she was not ready to abandon her pretense of strength. Though, certainly, she knew that she could not fool him.

"I am merely doing my duty," he replied with a brief half-smile.

The young woman understood its meaning. Of course he was also here as her friend. Leaving her alone now, would surmount to an act of cruelty.

"I hope your duty includes tolerating my vomit on your boots when I get sick..." Désirée quipped wryly. She nearly laughed out loud at the silliness of her own words. There was little doubt about how nervous she really was.

"You will not," Athos stated calmly. "After all you have seen, an audience with the king cannot unnerve you enough for it."

The very next moment, she froze in mid-step. And, for an instant, she grew so pale that he feared to be wrong. "Not the king, no..." she whispered.

He had no idea what exactly was amiss with her now. Just as he was about to venture a guess, he noticed what had caused this sudden alarm. A few steps further down the tree-lined path that led to the palace's postern gate stood Prince Henri de Condé, waiting for her.

Désirée reacted to her uncle's presence as though he was some ghastly apparition. Athos doubted that the prince had any intention of upsetting her. His friend's nerves, however, rendered her blind to the fact. Condé was a difficult man, yet she seemed to have the measure of him. There was no reason for fear. Still, she shuddered with pitiful trepidation.

Upon Condé's approach, Athos sketched a bow. In spite of Désirée's refusal to let go of his arm, he released his grip.

"I shall take over from here," the prince said with a shrewd glare at him and the three others. If he could, he would make them disappear on the spot. But some things were even beyond a nobleman's powers.

"As your highness commands," Athos replied, taking a small step backwards. His move made Désirée spin around at him in shocked surprise. But his calm, steady gaze reassured her that he would not yield any further.

Emboldened, Désirée turned back towards her uncle. She gave him the smallest of curtsies, rife with reluctance. "I think the Musketeers should stay. They have accompanied me this far and I do not want to miss them now."

Henri greeted her demand with a dismissive roll of his eyes. "Suit yourself. I do not care, as long as they stay out of my business," he retorted before grasping her hand. Quite unceremoniously, he pulled her close and started walking. She had no other chance than to keep up with his fast pace.

As the distance between them increased, Athos set out to follow. But Aramis's presence close to his elbow checked him. His friend wanted to talk. Deep down, Athos knew what he was going to say, yet he glanced over his shoulder and allowed him to phrase the matter in his own words.

"She has not been with them for three days, and already she is drawn into the family business," Aramis observed quietly with a frown of great concern. "I do not like this."

It was exactly what Athos had expected of his friend. His moral conscience would not allow him to leave these qualms unspoken. Athos understood his feelings; a part of him even shared them. They had not protected Désirée, only to see her noble relatives play their games of intrigue with her. Although there was nothing Athos could say to assuage his comrade about the fact.

"It has been inevitable," he replied flatly. "But it is far better than to see her cast out, or dead..."

Naturally, his cool realism displeased Aramis. He opened his mouth to reply but the sound of a carriage approaching in the yard behind them stopped him short. It was Désirée's mother. Turning towards the sound, his comrade moved away to greet the Princess Éloïse. Porthos followed in his wake.

"I cannot watch this," Aramis murmured, just before leaving his earshot.

With a fleeting nod of acknowledgement, Athos walked on. After a moment, D'Artagnan fell in next to him. There was a look of exasperation on the younger man's face. "If this whole business upsets even Aramis, I don't want to know how Désirée must feel..." he stated.

Athos creased his brow. There was a striking bit of truth in his observation. Today, nobody would want to be in their young friend's shoes. The looming royal audience was enough to reduce her to a trembling heap of nerves. Being forced into serious conversation with her uncle on top of it might suffice to break Désirée's fragile self-esteem altogether. They could only pray that she showed no weakness in front of the king. No doubt, the cardinal would not hesitate to prey on it; to destroy her future.

xx

His niece was nervous, for no good reason. It irked Henri. Yet his mood had already deteriorated the second he had arrived at the Louvre. Désirée's fickle demeanour only perpetuated his seething frustration.

Mere minutes after his arrival, he had learned that Richelieu would be attending the audience. Nothing in his power could stop that. Most certainly, his eminence had contrived another treacherous scheme against his family. All at once, Désirée's claim of having reconciled with the cardinal felt like a lie.

They had to talk, right now. Otherwise this whole affair would combust into a crippling scandal. Henri could not afford it. He had hoped to postpone the conversation to another time, but his plans had changed, as rapidly as the tide of his niece's perturbed feelings.

Her fearful refusal of joining him had ebbed into a tense smile. But the forced pretense of suddenly enjoying his company showed considerable cracks. Désirée's glowing amber eyes remained unsteady. In unmistakable fright, they followed his every move.

"Does it give your highness pleasure to upset me?" she demanded through her teeth.

Henri barely abstained from groaning. Apparently she was not herself at present. Otherwise she would hardly jump to such a foolish conclusion. "Of course not," he replied, doing his best to speak without harshness. "But you must tell me everything that has passed between you and the cardinal this morning."

"Now?" his niece's face derailed into an expression of incredulity. "You said later..." she murmured. Her gaze went towards her feet as she struggled for composure.

"That was before Richelieu decided to attend the audience," he retorted. This time, he could not soften his tone. His hand closed around her arm, more fiercely than he had intended.

She jumped, pulling away at once. For a moment it seemed as if she would strike him. When their gazes locked, he realized that his move had sobered her clouded mind.

"Fine," Désirée said. With some caution, she ventured to take his arm again, compelling him to walk on with her. "He told me that Lucien de Courtenay has a brother, Jérôme. He joined the Jesuits and lived in the China mission with us, unbeknownst of his relations. He was the man who charged me in front of the Chinese authorities..." Instead of finishing the sentence, she grimaced in an instant flash of unseen pain. "But you know the rest of the story. In return I also told his eminence something."

"What did you tell him?" The news alarmed Henri. Had she condemned herself in front of him? Looking at her now, it seemed more than just a possibility. He should have never allowed her to pursue this madness.

His concern elicited a reproachful look. Clearly, Désirée had expected his trust. Her near hysterical, fickle mood, however, made it impossible for him to offer it. "That my father never told me his secrets and..."

Another pause lingered in the air between them. Henri allowed his niece to walk on in silence, until unrest began to gnaw at his nerves. "And what else?" He demanded at last, intensifying his question with a hard glare. His patience had just begun to wear dangerously thin. They had no time for prolonged silences now.

"That I pray for his eminence," her response was little more than a hasty whisper. She seemed embarrassed by the fact. And rightly so; it was a tactless thing to say to a cardinal. Having grown up with priests, she should know better.

Yet Henri had expected far worse than the spiritual silliness of a desperate woman. It was all a trifle. "This cannot be all..." he concluded, an unconvinced frown lining his brow. The cardinal could be a most incalculable, very dangerous man. Yet it was highly unlike him to scheme without good reasons. And here Désirée claimed she had dealt with these reasons for good. Right now, Henri doubted his niece's credibility. With a level stare, he informed her of the fact.

She took it with ill grace. "It was all. I swear." Her voice sounded shaky and unnerved. "Although, I think I know what it might be. But you have to stop staring first. It unsettles me horribly."

"It should, Mademoiselle," he did not heed her request. Instead, he grabbed her wrist, increasing the pressure until she trembled. It was about time his niece learned that she could not order him around as she pleased. "And, even though I do not care for a woman's whimsical thoughts, you may share them."

When Désirée had been pale before, she had turned a chalky white now. Wide-eyed and perplexed she studied him. He felt her arm stiffen in his grip, but she did not try to free it. "He... he wants me to know he is watching, waiting for the one mistake that will finish me. He promised me that..."

Gruffly, Henri nodded at her words. Much as he doubted women's ability of logical thought, the argument made sense. "Well, I hope you are right."

Further down the gravel path he spotted his sister. She was approaching them, followed by two Musketeers and her maidservant. It was the sign to end this conversation. Once more he tugged at Désirée's arm, pulling her so close that their bodies nearly touched. "Either way Mademoiselle," he whispered, with a sharp note of warning in his tone. "You should pray for this audience not to go awry; for your own sake..."

As his sister closed in, he released Désirée. It was best if Éloïse did not know what had just passed between them. She would only annoy him with her pointless nagging.

"Thank you for the vote of confidence, your highness," Désirée murmured as she stepped away towards her lady mother. She looked even more upset than before now. "I shall hope for some more civilised conversation in future," she breathed. As she turned away, a spark of anger illuminated her fiery eyes.

It did not perturb Henri in the slightest. He had done right to show her the ropes. His niece had to know her place before entering the elite circles of his family.

xx

"Are you quite well, dear? You look a little under the weather," her mother observed.

"Do not worry about me, Madame," Désirée replied. The princess's comment was as needless as the futile attept to smooth down her skirt. They were in the antechamber of the throne room, waiting to be admitted to the royal presence. It would be embarrassing if someone saw her fussing.

Gingerly, Désirée nudged away her mother's hand. "It is my uncle who seems somewhat under the weather... " she added quietly, after an anxious glance over her shoulder. She was afraid Henri might have suddenly materialized behind her. But her uncle was still with the king. After their confrontation in the garden, he had simply walked on. He had not spoken another word, not even to greet his sister.

It bewildered Désirée. A few hours ago, her uncle's mood had been fine and fair. Now he had changed face. Out of nowhere, he had confronted her with unprecedented anger and unforeseen threats. She was still trembling in shock.

"Oh, I should have cautioned you about his temper," her mother observed wistfully. She seemed truly disgruntled about the forgotten warning. "If my brother gets upset, he can become quite volatile."

Désirée sighed, exhaling audibly. As her breath found its path into the open air, her body relaxed a little. Yet her nerves remained tense and shaky. Somehow, however, she managed to compose her features into a pleasant smile. "I will try to remember that."

At once, the door to the throne room opened a crack and Captain Treville emerged. Briefly, he bowed to her mother. When he turned to her at last, Désirée's heart stopped beating for a split second. Whatever calmness she had regained a moment ago melted into a gush of cold sweat that trickled down her back. The floor seemed to shake beneath her feet. She fought to steady herself and stay upright. Just when she felt like tumbling under the pressure of her fright, a hand grasped hers from behind.

It was D'Artagnan's. The young man smiled at her with an air of reassurance. "Do not worry so much," he whispered, apparently trying not to chuckle at the horrified look on her face. "You have got this."

Désirée tried to reward his encouragement with a grateful nod. Her head, however refused to obey. Instead, she felt her fingernails dig into D'Artagnan's hand. Although, before she could hurt him, Athos reached out to unpick her grip.

"Just remember your courage and all will be well," he told her. "You are much braver than you think."

His words in God's ear... Désirée sighed. He meant well. But she was not able to express her thanks. Not right now.

At once, she jumped. Now Porthos had placed his large palm on her shoulder. "Just do not fall over your dress again," he advised with a playful wink.

Without waiting it, her friend's gesture provoked disapproving stares from both Princess Éloïse... and Treville. On top of it, Aramis gently shook his head, probably at the relative uselessness of his comrade's advice. Nonchalantly, Porthos withdrew his hand, pretending he had found a little speck of dust on her gown.

Désirée felt sorry his endearing attempt to cheer her up had gone awry. For a brief moment, it evoked enough pity to outweigh the tense anticipation that so unsettled her. Seizing the respite, she stepped away from the Musketeers and approached their captain. "We better get going," she said.

"Whenever you are ready, Mademoiselle," Treville replied. She did not fail to glimpse the compassionate half-smile that lit up his businesslike expression for just a second.

"I never will be," Désirée murmured. "But I doubt we have the time to wait forever."

After her mother had walked on ahead into the throne room, she grasped Treville's arm as though it was the only means to hold herself upright. When he started walking, her reeling thoughts jumped back to the night he had joined ranks with her father to save her from Richelieu.

Treville had carried her to safety then. And Désirée had been a frightened young girl, writhing in his arms, screaming in fear. Right now, she ached to scream again. However, twenty years had passed and she would not get away with it this time. She was not a young child anymore.

xx

Mademoiselle de Sauveterre's hand felt as cold and stiff as if it belonged to a corpse. Merely the fact that she was walking next to him persuaded Treville otherwise. She was unduly anxious and it surprised him. He had gotten to know a very different young woman; one whose resolve had been tested so relentlessly, it needed more than a royal audience to crumble.

He wondered whether her uncle had anything to do with it. The way Henri de Condé had stomped into the king's presence earlier left little doubt about his foul temper. But the prince had curbed it, for everyone's sake. Although Treville doubted his serene highness had been as considerate in front of his niece.

Yet, even now, the young woman was ignorant of the full scale her uncle's unpleasantness could reach. Had she seen it before the audience, she would probably not be on her feet at all. Désirée was, however, still walking upright. With slow but steady steps she walked by his side as they passed through the last antechamber to the throne room.

The Musketeers brought up the rear of their little procession. After Porthos's slightly misguided attempt to encourage Mademoiselle, his men had been quiet and on their best behaviour. Now, though, Treville perceived a stir in their ranks, followed by Aramis quietly clearing his throat. With a note of rebuke, Treville spun around to him pointing at the tail end of their friend's gown. It was dragging, threatening to trip her. Apparently, Porthos's concerns had not come from nothing.

"Mademoiselle..." Treville addressed the young lady in a low voice, to save her from embarrassment. When she turned, he nodded discreetly at her skirt. Confused she blinked at him. His subtle hint had meant nothing to her.

Before her perplexion could grow any further, Treville decided to take action. "Allow me." With a sigh he tugged at the silk fabric, slipping a little of it into her palm.

"Oh." Now Désirée understood. With a sheepish glance, she gathered up the skirt. "I never cease to embarrass myself, do I not?"

Treville shrugged. "It does not matter, Mademoiselle, as long as you do not hurt yourself."

"Does this include my pride?" She groaned, exasperated with her own person. "Falling on my face in front of the king would pose quite the spectacle. Although it is mandatory to prostrate oneself in China..." A sudden, wry smile lit up her face. She seemed to relax a little now. It was a relief, and not a second too late.

They had entered the throne room at last. Princess Éloïse, who had been walking in front of them, had already dropped into a curtsy in front of the king. Now Louis had caught sight of them.

Treville let go of Désirée's hand and bowed. From the edge of his vision he watched her curtsy deeply, with as much elegance as she could muster.

After a moment, the king motioned for her to rise. He seemed mildly amused, for no obvious reason. Richelieu, who stood to his right, posed a stark contrast to Louis's fair mood. He was scowling at her in bottomless disfavour. Yet neither the king, nor Désirée took any notice of his eminence.

Merely Prince Henri regarded his adversary with a rock-hard glare. Moments before Treville had been sent to fetch the remainder of the party, Condé had put the cardinal in his place brusquely for voicing his discontent about Mademoiselle's legitimation.

It had obviously sufficed to keep him quiet now, as the king beckoned for Désirée to come closer. Almost timidly, she stepped forward. Not daring to lift her eyes, she submitted to his scrutiny.

"So this is your niece, Condé?" Louis inquired of the prince as he was content with his scrutiny. "Is she always this shy?"

"Less often than she should be, sire," Henri retorted with an unparalleled bluntness that made his royal cousin smile.

"I see. It sounds as though you have frightened her into silence," the king stated with a brief grin.

His words provoked Désirée to gaze up at long last. Treville could not see the look in her eyes, yet it had to contain at least a little bit of defiance, for her uncle glared her way with mute reproach.

Louis, however, was delighted. "Ah, finally. That is much better." He offered Désirée an encouraging smile. "You are not afraid of me, Mademoiselle, are you?"

"No, your majesty. Unless you want me to be." She told him with surprising coolness.

"I see you have some sense of humour, Mademoiselle. Surely, you did not inherit it from your uncle," Louis commented, visibly amused at his own statement. Condé, however, scowled in silence. His nonexistent tolerance of ridicule was no secret. Had it not been the king, he would have shown his temper now.

Désirée did not fail to notice her uncle's reaction. She seemed to consider it a chance for vengeance. "Forgive me for saying so, your majesty, but I believe Monsieur le prince prefers to take matters seriously."

Treville caught himself in the middle of a flinch. The young woman did not seem to realize that she was playing a dangerous game, gambling with her uncle's favour. It would be a miracle if the prince allowed her to speak for him unscathed. He was not the only one here to realize this. Her mother had turned to stare at Désirée, pallid with shock. The princess knew her brother's prickly pride all too well.

Her stare made Désirée flush. "Forgive me, if I spoke out of turn..." She paused, biting her lip. Her discomfort was as obvious as her confusion. "I hope I did not break any rules. Protocol is not my strong suit, especially not when I am nervous."

At once, Richelieu stirred in his place next to the throne. Like a wolf, he picked up the scent of her fear. "Why would you be nervous, Mademoiselle? Are you, perhaps, hiding something from the king?"

Incredulous, Désirée gawped at the cardinal. Very slowly, her mouth opened to answer. Yet it was Condé who spoke instead, anger vibrating starkly in the sharpness of his tone.

"Your eminence has no place to accuse my niece of anything. And I believe you have had plenty of opportunity to share your erroneous opinions on this matter," he snapped, on the brink of shouting.

Richelieu responded in turn, with the same fiery harshness. "Perhaps it is his highness who is in error. Or do you seriously believe you have the right to ask his majesty to ennoble every illegitimate offshoot of your once so noble house?"

It was a badly concealed jape at Prince Henri's own illegitimacy. Usually those brought out the worst in him. For everyone's luck, the king intervened. "Stop it, both of you. I have heard enough of your squabbling for one day."

Despite their visible consternation, both men fell silent at once. But Louis had already moved his attention to Désirée. The sudden row had left her ashen and trembling. Treville felt an urge to grasp her limp hand. Though he feared it would only make her jump with fright.

The king saw it as well and it moved him to do something unforeseen. Out of nowhere, he rose and stepped away from the throne. "I think we need a moment to ourselves. Mademoiselle; Treville," he beckoned for them to follow as he started walking towards the small audience chamber adjacent to the throne room.

With a timid nod, Désirée followed, more stumbling than walking. Her arm trailed slightly behind, inviting Treville to take hold. He grasped it and gently ushered the young woman onwards. She seemed very hesitant, bemused about what was happening.

When Treville glanced over his shoulder, he saw the same confusion mirrored in everyone's faces. Granting Désirée a private audience was a most unusual maneuver for the king. But then, strange circumstances demanded unconventional measures. Treville was uncertain the king's endgame. Although when he showed Désirée into the next room, he gave her a brief smile of reassurance. "I believe he likes you, Mademoiselle."

xx

Why would the king like her? It made no sense. Being a second cousins once removed was not reason enough. Désirée had seen how treacherous family could be. The actions of the de Courtenay brothers, her grandmother, and even her uncle had shown her the abyss of rivalry and deceit. Being related did not soften the cruel, hard feelings it created.

"Please, Mademoiselle, have a seat." The king had settled down on one of the lavish upholstered benches that were set out across the smaller chamber. Now he was pointing out a spot on the bench right opposite him.

"I ... Thank you, your majesty." Very slowly, Désirée unfroze from her glacial state of fear. Knowing that it would be idiocy to refuse the ruler of France, she sat, burying her shaky hands in the pleats of her skirts. She was nervous and could not suppress the niggling sense of distrust that had been plaguing her all day. "The Emperor of China would not be so kind," she murmured, before she could stop her tongue.

"What was that, Mademoiselle?" Louis regarded her with a blank stare.

Désirée bit her lip. "Forgive me, sire. It is just that the emperor would not allow anyone to sit during an audience, unless it is one of his wives..." It was horrible, empty talk. She was certain the king would dislike it.

Yet the opposite was the case. "So you have indeed been to China, and have even seen the emperor. He must be awe-inspiring."

"I have seen him once, from a distance, when I was very young. He seemed a frightful man. Even looking at his countenance is a crime, punishable by dismemberment." Désirée did not know why this would interest him. Although, talking about it felt strangely calming. "And he had an imperial camel. They are majestic animals. Had I known I would ever get to meet you, sire, I would have tried to bring one as a gift. Although, they would hate to be trapped on a ship for so long."

Louis grinned. It was a strange expression. She had not expected it. "You amuse me, Mademoiselle. Even that should be enough reason to grant your family's request."

Désirée tried to smile back, but her nerves turned the attempt into a pained grimace. "You mean to say, I am better company than the two cantankerous old men beyond that door, do you not, sire?"

"I shall not tell Cousin Henri you just said that, Mademoiselle." Visibly surprised about her directness, Louis frowned. "But yes, the cardinal and him could not disagree more about your person. In fact, his eminence seems to greatly dislike you."

Désirée felt her insides clench into a painful ball. So much for Richelieu honouring his promise. "Your majesty should be aware that my late father was the cardinal's political enemy."

"Well, he was a priest with haughty ambitions, was he not?" The king observed plainly.

Désirée's jaw dropped in shocked confusion. She had no idea what he meant. What had Richelieu told him? Cautiously, she tried to contain the unknown damage his claims had possibly inflicted:

"The cardinal is a very ambitious priest himself, sire. And like all men, men of the church are jealous and spiteful sometimes. I have suffered the consequences of that as well. Yet I have had no part in these rivalries. My father would have never allowed it."

"Oh, I believe you, Mademoiselle." The king's tone softened again. He seemed to realize how his words had upset her. "My first minister has a habit of holding grudges. Although it feels unfair in your case, for he hardly knows you at all. However, neither do I." Louis paused to study her closely. As he did so, a frown formed on his brow. It deepened with every passing moment. "So tell me, Mademoiselle, what are your ambitions?"

Désirée gawped at him. What was he thinking of her? "I cannot say I have any, sire," she replied quietly, struggling to hide her surprise at his rather harsh inquiry. "Unless, aching to have a family after all these years counts for one. It is all that matters to me. Until today, your Musketeers have graciously protected me. Although, now that the threats on my life have been resolved, this cannot continue. From now on, I would be on my own again."

"And we cannot do this to such a charming young woman, surely." Louis smiled once more. "And, knowing your Uncle Condé, he would do it to you, unless we change your station in this world."

She sighed, sensing the brutal truth in his observation. "Clearly, Monsieur le prince, is the ambitious one here," she blurted out.

"Precisely. And he is not alone. I have some ambitions as well." Out of nowhere, Louis reached for her hands. "I would like your mother to return to court. Giving you legitimacy would persuade her to come back, after all these years in hiding. When I was young, I have always enjoyed her company. She has been as sweet and charming as you seem."

"If that is the plan, sire, I think the solution is at hand." Désirée chewed her lip. Winning her cousin's favour could not be this easy. There had to be a catch. Though it felt wrong to address her doubts. They were too insubstantial to risk the life she could receive today. "Yet, unlike my family, I will not ask this gift of your majesty. I do not have the right. It is entirely up to you. And please, sire, do not expect me to act as sweet and charming as my mother."

Her final words felt like a capital misstep. Désirée did not have to turn to feel Treville's subtle stare on her. Contradicting the ruler seemed to be a major offense in France as well. "I can be clumsy and rude," she added in a hasty explanation. "And I cannot always keep my opinions to myself."

"So they tell me," Louis agreed. As by a miracle, he did not look upset at all. "I get the feeling that you, and your tales of China, will be exciting company, Mademoiselle. I know what we will do."

Her cousin rubbed his hands together, intent to conclude the business of her future. "Now, let me tell you; before Cousin Henri walks in to enquire about it." He leaned forward, moving closer.

This sudden gesture of openness perplexed Désirée. It felt as though she had just awakened inside a very strange dream. "My uncle would do that, sire?"

"Of course, he is the Prince de Condé." Louis stated, just before he began to confide his plans in her.

With every passing second in which he revealed them, the hairs on Désirée's neck stood up a little more. As hard as she fought to steel herself, she was not prepared to hear the things he told her now. Gradually, Désirée lost the struggle for composure. At once, a tear dropped into her palm. It startled her, so much that her whole body shuddered. She had never expected this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not long now until the conclusion. How will things turn out for Désirée and our boys? I would love to hear your thoughts! xx :)


	18. The First Of Her Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the events at court unravel, the decision about Désirée's future draws close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, here come the final two chapters to conclude Désirée's story. I hope you will enjoy the end of the ride. Please let me know how you liked it, I am so excited to hear your thoughts! :)

18\. The First Of Her Name

Aramis felt the tension building in the throne room. The king had been away with Désirée and Treville for nearly half an hour now. All this time, the Prince de Condé had just stood there, staring into emptiness with a stony mien. Every once in a while, he would steal a glare at Richelieu. The cardinal had stayed on the other end of the vast space, with the same air of impassiveness. Then he had tired of the game and summoned one of his aides.

Now they stood in a corner, using the time to converse about other matters. It was a purposeful slight against Désirée's uncle. But Condé showed no inclination to mention it. Both men knew how their argument had driven away the king, spoiling their every chance to influence his decision. More squabbling would not help them now.

And neither had their clash helped Désirée's poor mother's constitution. The events had left Princess Éloïse so worked up that she struggled to keep on her feet. Since her brother the prince did not seem to care, D'Artagnan had taken pity on her. Chivalrously, he had offered her his arm and ushered her to sit on a bench beneath the windows. Otherwise she might have fainted under the burden of her worked-up feelings.

Aramis liked none of this. An sense of brooding anger gnawed at him. This whole farcical scene was a shining example of how cantankerous and selfish the high nobility could be. He was glad that he could hide his distaste behind the façade of doing his soldierly duty. Nobody expected him to stir or even speak. And he would not. It was bad enough to stand by and watch.

Without wanting it, his thoughts kept on travelling back to Désirée. The audience had challenged her greatly. All along, her behaviour had been fickle, jumping back and forth between horrible fright and admirable courage. Her feelings had seemed as ambivalent as his own:

He craved for her to be happy, with all his heart. Yet the mere idea of Louis ennobling her made his blood run cold. Aramis did not want to see her at this family's mercy. The privilege and protection they offered were nothing compared to their countless demands. Désirée would have to change her gentle nature, only to win their ongoing favour.

At once a quiet mutter from Porthos interrupted his thoughts. "They are taking their sweet time. Perhaps his majesty has taken her for a stroll in the gardens."

"With the king, you never know," Aramis whispered back, not failing to notice the mild concern clouding his comrade's face. He tried to ease Porthos's worries with a little smirk. But it was no heartfelt gesture. "And is that not what you would do if you want to woo a woman?"

Porthos snorted, in spite of his unease. "I do so enjoy a good walk; also without a lady on my arm."

"Although I doubt anyone will be walking anywhere today," Athos chimed in quietly from behind them with unsurpassed dryness. Since Désirée's departure, he had not spoken a word. Knowing him, it meant that he was even more displeased with the events than Aramis himself.

"I only hope that we will all get to walk out of this circus soon..." Porthos grumbled in reply.

Suddenly, the door to the audience chamber cracked open, as though to answer his complaint. Involuntarily, Aramis sucked in a breath, struggling with a sinking feeling of dreadful anticipation.

After a brief moment, Captain Treville entered the throne room. Louis followed close behind. He was holding Désirée's hand. She still looked frightfully pale. No discernible emotion showed on her face. Yet when the king exchanged glances with her, a spark of relief illuminated her beautiful brown eyes.

A tense silence held the entire room in its grip. Richelieu had turned to glare at Désirée. Condé pulled himself upright and kept staring blankly into his royal cousin's general direction. And Princess Éloïse had somehow found the strength to stand, but dared not let go of D'Artagnan's arm.

At last, the king turned to address them with an air of ceremonial. "I present to you, Désirée Éloïse Marie de Bourbon, Marquise d'Isles."

For long moments, nobody spoke. When Aramis glanced around, he noticed that Richelieu's face had fallen in shock. Mere seconds later, his eminence regained control over his derailed features. It seemed as if he had finally realized his defeat. Almost reverently, he shuffled towards the king. With some reluctance, he bowed to Désirée, paying his respects.

"Mademoiselle," he murmured, his voice oozing half-heartedly suppressed contempt.

Désirée, however, took his gesture with calm grace. "Your eminence is too kind." With a thin smile, she faced away from him and gave her attention to Henri.

The prince, too, had left his perch on the other side of the room. As he closed in, he ignored both her and the cardinal. His sole interest belonged to the king. "I cannot thank you enough, sire," he allowed, in a show of gratitude that cost him visible effort.

Louis seemed well at ease with Condé's unfeeling, perfunctory nature. "Do not mention it, Monsieur. I would do almost anything for my most loyal cousin. Just try not to make it a habit." With that, the king placed Désirée's hand inside his. "I trust that you will take good care of your niece. She more than deserves it."

His words made Désirée flush. "Your majesty." Almost shyly, she curtsied to her royal benefactor. With the smallest sigh of relief, she allowed her uncle to lead her across the room to her mother.

Suddenly Porthos nudged Aramis from behind. It was a gentle reminder to bow as they passed. Désirée was a noblewoman now. She was entitled to the gesture. As he showed his reverence, his mind travelled back to the day he had picked the young woman off the streets. Without this encounter, neither of them would be here today. He wondered why fate had brought them together. Sometimes, providence worked in the most peculiar ways.

xx

"Why do women cry over every triviality?" Henri muttered under his breath.

He seemed annoyed but no longer displeased. Désirée felt it in his grip around her arm: It was less forceful than the last time he had held on to her in the garden.

"I would not know, uncle," she quipped rather boldly while glancing at her mother. The princess awaited them not far ahead. She was clutching D'Artagnan's elbow as she stood quivering, unable to hold back her tears. Although she looked anything but sad. "By the looks of it, my mother seems overjoyed, as am I. Although she seems in desperate need of a fresh handkerchief. It would be most gracious of you to provide it."

Désirée felt that she had come close to crossing the invisible threshold of incurring the prince's wrath. But, fortunately, his victory over Richelieu appeared to have improved his patience.

"As her daughter, Mademoiselle, that is your duty," Henri retorted with a mild scowl.

"It is indeed, Monsieur. However, I cannot. I have been so fidgety that my handkerchief has slipped beyond my reach," she replied, feeling a hot flush rise to her cheeks.

Naturally, Uncle Condé had to prey on her embarrassment. "It slipped? Where to?"

"Into my unmentionables, if your highness must know," Désirée countered very quietly as a hot flush crept into her cheeks.

The information gave Henri pause. "You, Mademoiselle, are unmentionable. I hope you will soon learn more refined manners."

"I will try my best," she sighed. "And, if it were not for the protocol, I would be hugging and kissing you now, to express the depth of my gratitude."

The prince stopped. He let go of her hand. Désirée flinched, ready to bear another wave of his anger. Yet, instead of a verbal lashing, he gave her the ghost of a smile. It seemed as though he had finally reverted to the man she had spoken to the night before. It was a relief.

"We can still do it later." He fished his handkerchief from his sleeve and pressed it into her hand. "Right now, it is your lady mother who requires a hug; otherwise she will never stop blubbering."

Désirée ventured to smile back at her uncle. "Quite so, your highness."

With that she bounded off towards her mother. Taking her unsteady arm from D'Artagnan with a thankful nod, she allowed the princess to enclose her in a tight embrace.

"Everything is fine now, mother. Please stop crying; or I will start as well." She set out to dry the princess's tears with the handkerchief. Not two hours ago, her mother had done the same for her, with unshakable calmness. Now their roles had reversed.

"Oh, Désirée," she sobbed, holding her in a tight hug. "I am so happy."

"As am I," Désirée could not help but rub her mother's back. "But please stop now. It upsets your brother."

The mention of Henri's mood sufficed to end her tears. "Forgive me," Éloïse sniffled, struggling to stop. "But I had not expected our cousin to award you a title..."

"His majesty did it for you, mother," Désirée told her. "He wishes for you to return to court without shame."

These words shocked her so much that they dried the rest of her tears. "It is very thoughtful of him. His father once awarded this title to your aunt Catherine, to ease her grief about our father's death. But she died so young..."

"Sweet little Catherine, " Désirée heard Henri's deep voice from right behind her. He had been eavesdropping and did not like his sister's maudlin talk. "Madame, it is high time you stop this pointless sentimentality. We should be leaving."

"Of course, brother," Éloïse glowered at him with unexpected passion. "But first I shall go and thank Cousin Louis for his kindness."

Unhindered by the prince, she strode back towards the king. In passing, she breathed a kiss on Désirée's cheek.

"Welcome home, dear," she whispered. And then she was gone.

Désirée was not inclined to leave, either. With a little sigh, she turned towards Henri, smiling apologetically. "If you will excuse me, Monsieur. I have some other business to attend myself. Please give me a moment."

"But be quick about it. I do not have all afternoon," he retorted in a somewhat commanding tone.

Désirée signalled her understanding with a gentle bow of her head. "I shall not be long. Most certainly, the Louvre has seen enough of us for one day."

Before she set about her unfinished business, a fit of candour overcame her. Quickly, she looked left and right. Nobody was watching. So she took a deep breath and hugged the prince. He did not resist. For a long moment, they stood firmly entwined. Then she let him go.

"Let us pretend this has never happened. I have a reputation to uphold," Henri warned her. When she caught his eye, she realized that he was not entirely serious.

"I have no recollection of whatever your highness is talking about." Désirée winked at her uncle with a cheeky air of conspiracy. Then she nodded at Treville who had rejoined his Musketeers in the middle of the hall. "Captain, we six should have a word."

Her request was most unusual, yet Treville obliged. "Mademoiselle," he came over, offering her his arm. With a pleased smile, Désirée took it. Together they set out towards the courtyard. The Musketeers, her four most loyal friends, followed in their wake. They had a lot to confer about.

xx

"I just nearly got sick on myself." Désirée observed with great frankness. The dead serious look on her face added a sense of misplaced gravity to her words.

It made Porthos crack up. After the strains of the audience, it was too much for him to take. His comrades seemed to agree. That was, all but one:

There was a flicker of concern in Aramis's eye. His friend had been alarmingly worried, ever since this morning. "That would have wrecked your poor mother's nerves, Mademoiselle," he remarked, gently touching her hand.

"Or yours, Monsieur?" Désirée had noticed his concerned state of mind as well. She picked his hand off her wrist and blew a kiss on its back. "What is it that upsets you so?"

Aramis hesitated. He seemed to carefully weigh his words. "I am worried about you, Désirée ... about what will become of you. The life you have now might not be better than what has gone before. You should know that the high nobility does not shy away from dangerous intrigues..."

Here Captain Treville's warning glare stopped him. He had a point. They were still at court; the fact that they had retreated to the palace gardens hardly kept them safe from curious ears. But Aramis needed not say more. Désirée understood very well. Porthos had expected her to get cross and slap his doubtful friend. Instead she regarded him with a warm smile.

"I understand, but you need not worry. So far, most of my life has been an intrigue. Yet, now, I have found caring, honourable friends to protect me." With that, she hugged him.

As they disentangled, Désirée was smirking. "If you are looking for something to fuss over, however, you should turn to your Latin. Some of those scribbles in your Bible are atrociously phrased."

Again, Porthos had to laugh. It was only his luck that D'Artagnan had broken into a chuckle as well. So Désirée's stare hit the young man instead.

She scowled at him. "What is so funny, young man?"

"Oh nothing... really," D'Artagnan coughed. "I am only glad that I do not scribble into my Bible. If I did, you would slap it on my head the second you saw the grammar."

Désirée snorted. She aimed her flat hand at the back of his head, as though to strike him. But then she merely ruffled his long, brown hair. "I might, if only to make you wear a hat. It would look handsome on you. Come here."

Getting on her tiptoes, she kissed his cheek. Porthos saw him cringe a little; though only in surprise.

"I will miss you," Désirée smiled. "And please thank Constance for everything she has done. If she needs help with that husband of hers, she can let me know. I might be able to put him in his place."

She should not have said that. It made Athos frown with disapproval. "Be careful with that, Mademoiselle. It might backfire. And then, not even nobility will offer you protection."

"Do you not think it is enough that Aramis plays the worry wart?" Désirée rolled her eyes.

"It was merely offering you some well-meant advice, Mademoiselle," he retorted, glowering mildly. "I am well aware you might not require it."

She sighed. "Although there is something else I need from you."

Clearly she meant the sword fighting. Athos knew that as well. And he did not much like the notion. "I am sure your uncle will disapprove of it. A lady should not be seen with a blade..."

"My goodness," Désirée huffed. "Pray, when will my uncle ever be home? Besides, if you are afraid I might skewer him, you can rest assured that it will never happen."

"That is what you say now." A fleeting smirk appeared on his face.

Now the young lady laughed. "Hopefully not. May I hug you, Monsieur?"

"If you must." Feigning reluctance, Athos took her into his arms. Their embrace lasted surprisingly long. Porthos sensed that they would greatly miss each other's company.

But their badly hidden attachment was nothing compared to his own sentiments for her. When Désirée finally turned to him, Porthos had the urge to cry. Yet she never got to see his tears. Despite the sadness inside his heart, he conjured up a smile.

"Oh Porthos," she sighed heavily. The shrewd look in her large amber eyes told him that she knew his true feelings. He could not conceal them from her. "I will miss you."

Porthos cleared his throat. He felt the heat of embarrassment rise to his cheeks. "I ... me too."

Désirée bit her lip. "Evangeline thought you might believe that..." She paused to stare at her feet. For no obvious reason, her demeanour had just become painstakingly awkward. "That we two are more than just friends."

He knew what she was struggling to tell him: they could not love each other. Now that she was a noblewoman, still unmarried and pure, an affair would damage her honour. It could even destroy her. Perhaps, if things had played out differently, Désirée would have made a formidable soldier's wife. But not anymore; not like this.

"We are definitely more than that," Porthos replied. Désirée's eyes widened in shock at his words. He had expected nothing less. "We are best friends. And we always will be."

Relieved that he had understood her meaning after all, she gave him a rather fierce punch into the stomach. "You are impossible, Monsieur du Valon."

"Hey," smirking, Porthos grasped her fist and opened it. "I could say the same about you, your grace." Still mildly amused, he kissed her knuckles.

Despite herself, Désirée laughed. "Do you reckon her grace could get one last kiss?"

He shrugged. "Well, if she wants one, she can come here and get it."

And so she did. With remarkable force, Désirée's arms wrapped around his neck. Almost elegantly, she pulled herself up and kissed him. There was no point why she should strain herself in such a way. So Porthos helped her a little by lifting her into the air.

His move did not deter Désirée at all. For another, near eternal, moment they stayed entwined, hugging and kissing each other. Then a quiet whistle from Aramis stopped their passion dead in its tracks.

"Incoming," he warned them quietly, nodding at some figures that had just emerged from the Louvre's postern gate, no hundred yards away. It were Condé and his sister.

Quickly Porthos set down Désirée, smoothing her hopelessly rumpled dress. They both knew her uncle could never see them in such a compromising position.

"Porthos," Désirée whispered, suddenly rushed. "Thank you for being the brother I have never had."

"There is no need to thank me, Mademoiselle." Briefly, his fingertip brushed against her cheeks. "I only tried to give you what you needed the most."

"A home?" Désirée chuckled almost bitterly

There was no time to say anything else. Prince Henri and her mother were almost upon them. Désirée gazed at Porthos for one last time. The fiery sparkle in her eyes told him that they would always share a bond. Their fates were alike. Both of them had been torn away from homes they had never known.

At least, Désirée had found her family now. Yet Porthos doubted her momentary happiness would last forever. There would be countless trials ahead. And, perhaps, one day, those would bring them back together. Until this day, however, each of them had to go their separate ways.

xx

"Mademoiselle, your understanding of 'not long' does not agree with mine." Her uncle left no doubt about his great eagerness to leave.

"Forgive me, Monsieur, but I will need another moment," unfazed by his commanding demeanour, Désirée simply carried on conversing with her friends. "Courtesy forbids that I leave the captain without a proper farewell. Would you not agree, mother?"

"Naturally, dear." Princess Éloïse smiled a little. There was an unexpected cockiness in her usually so serene demeanour. For the nonce, she appeared to enjoy Désirée's defiance of her princely uncle's wishes.

"Well then," Désirée winked at her. Assured of her support, she turned back to Treville.

When her amber eyes met the captain's steel blue ones, she knew that she did not want him to bow to her. He and the Musketeers had been her lifesavers, more than once.

A year after losing her father, Treville had been the first and only one to fill the deep, dark cracks his demise had torn into her soul. And he had guarded her from certain death, without any obligation to do so. If anyone had earned the right to look her into the face, it was him.

They needed no words now. Disregarding their surroundings, Désirée rushed forward and embraced him. Treville allowed it with calm grace. Briefly, his hand brushed against her back, giving it a gentle pat.

When Désirée finally felt ready to let go, tears had filled her eyes. A bittersweet mixture of sadness, gratitude and relief had taken control of her. Even though she was safe at last, she was not prepared to part ways with the captain, or his men. Yet there was no other choice.

With a heavy sigh, Désirée took it. It was time to move on. "Thank you for keeping me safe, captain," she said very quietly.

"Do not thank me, Mademoiselle," he replied. "I merely did what your father would have wanted for you."

She nodded. Treville had done her father's bidding before, many years ago, in the fateful night she barely recalled. Without his brave intercession, the cardinal had triumphed over her twenty years ago. Now Richelieu had lost his petty war for good. "My father would have blessed you ... you and the Musketeers," she stated, full of heartfelt gratitude.

"He, too, was a blessed man, Mademoiselle," Treville replied with a kind smile. "I think he would be very proud of you now."

He was right. Like nobody else, her father would have understood the hardships she had endured to find her mother. He would have realized how close they had brought her to death and comended her courage to face them.

"And now, I must make my new family proud," she mused. "I pray that the same things that pleased my father will please them."

"Probably not," Treville replied equably. The notion hardly seemed to trouble him."But you will adapt to them. Aside from his haughtiness and his moods, your uncle is a decent, intelligent man. I am sure you will get on."

His views surprised Désirée. Until now, nobody had spoken of Henri with such favour. It reminded her of the kindness and understanding the prince had shown her only this morning. "I believe at least one of your men will not agree with that," she observed.

The captain knew precisely who she meant. "In some matters, I would not listen to Aramis too much. Sometimes he gets too passionate and forgets all logic."

Désirée chuckled. His description was very apt. "You know your Musketeers well, captain. Almost as though they were your children..."

"You may be right about that, Mademoiselle," he smiled. "And, lately, they have not been the only ones in need of mothering."

He meant her. She blushed. "Thank you..." she murmured, at a loss for any better words. "Thank you for giving me a home when I needed it the most... and for tolerating my wiles." All of a sudden, embarrassment had reduced Désirée's voice to a mere whisper.

Treville certainly sensed her sudden discomfort. For yet another time today, he grasped her hand. "It has been my pleasure, Mademoiselle. And now, it is time to pass on this duty to another."

Slowly he started walking, guiding her steps towards the prince who waited at the end of the gravel path. Even from afar, Henri's impatience was palpable. The captain, however, graciously overlooked it. In his own time he approached her uncle. Eventually he released Désirée's hand and bowed to the prince

"Your highness. My excuses for keeping you waiting. It will not happen again," Treville addressed him dutifully. Seeing how volatile he had been earlier, it was a very wise action.

Henri coolly acknowledged the apology with a curt nod. "I trust that it will not, captain."

"And I trust that you will take good care of your niece," Treville retorted.

Désirée's breath caught in her throat. These words audacious words posed a quiet challenge. She half expected her uncle to fly at them. Against her expectations, he took them with exemplary calmness:

"You may rest assured of that, Monsieur," Henri replied equably, refusing to show any emotion on his deadpan face.

Almost in the same instant, he turned on his heel. It was his way of showing that the matter was concluded for him. And he expected her to comply with his judgment. With nothing more than a crook of his finger, he beckoned for her to follow along as he strode away.

Désirée groaned quietly. "I believe this is my call." Once more, she wrapped her arms around Treville's shoulder to bid him farewell. In passing, she also glanced back at the Musketeers who waited for him a few yards away. As Porthos looked up, she blew him a kiss. For sure, this was not the last the men would see of her.

With a wry smile at her mother, Désirée faced away. "Shall we, Madame?"

"By all means, my dear." Princess Éloïse leaned over to kiss her hair. Her happiness seemed boundless; she had given up every effort to contain it. "Although, I shall see you back at the palace. Your uncle wishes to talk to you on the way..."

"He is making an unpleasant habit of that," she remarked with a mild frown. Her gut feeling did not like it.

Her mother seemed just as discontented with her brother's request. "It has been his habit even before you entered our lives. You better get used to it."

"Fine then," Désirée rolled her eyes. "I must not keep him waiting. I will see you later." Grudgingly she trailed after her uncle. He had already reached the far side of the gardens by now. As she rushed to catch up with him, doubts and worries raced through her head:

What more did the prince want of her? Judging from the aloof way in which he marched onwards without ever looking back at her, it could be nothing good. Had it been a mistake to make him wait? Désirée cringed at the notion. If so, she was in for a frightful journey; forced to endure a scolding, delivered with the relentless severity of an icy hailstorm.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to remember Treville's words. Henri would not harm her. He merely desired to be in absolute control of all affairs within his domain. Désirée would adapt to his brusque ways. After surviving the cardinal's dastardly schemes, this challenge felt almost easy.


	19. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henri and his niece have a good talk.

19\. Epilogue

His niece had a strong will and a flighty temper to match it. It was no seemly combination for a woman of her newly acquired position. She would be better off showing at least some degree of gentility. Henri, however, did not mind her lacking social refinement. He had never much cared for the dull company of gentile ladies. Their eagerness to please felt next to unbearable at time.

Thus he bore Désirée no ill will. Although it was his duty to put her into her place. He was not inclined to risk dishonour to his house at the young woman's clumsy hands. As it was, she had brought him close enough to it already. But there was still hope for her. Amused he watched how she stumbled and rushed after him, obviously afraid to earn his displeasure. It was a start.

"Mademoiselle," offering his arm, he helped her into the carriage.

"Your highness," she murmured almost absently. He wondered whence her mind had departed to now.

As he followed on, he saw in her face that something had upset her. What was it this time?

Désirée did not wait long to state the cause of her discontentment. "I would have liked to ride home. I am not very good at being cooped up inside a carriage." It was no complaint, just an utterly naive idea.

Henri wondered why she had to share it. She would not like his response. "You better get used to it. The sight of a young lady riding through the streets of Paris in a court gown is a spectacle I cannot allow."

"Is there anything you allow a young lady to do?" His niece retorted with an almost sullen glare. "Other than looking pretty in a fine dress..."

"Certainly," Henri rolled his eyes. She was rather pushing her luck with his limited goodwill. "But she will not get to cause me dishonour, or belittle me in public."

Désirée answered his earnest remark with a humourless chuckle. "Did I do any such thing today, Monsieur?"

Her face was the picture of innocence now. Though, certainly she knew better. "You came very close to it. Never attempt to get any closer, for you will not enjoy the consequences."

"I shall try not to," she groaned. It was not possible to tell if in exasperation or defeat. "Though you need not worry overly much, Monsieur."

"I shall hope it, Mademoiselle," Henri narrowed his eyes. He found it hard to trust such a superficial assurance.

The young woman sensed his uncertainty and tried to reinforce her words with reason. "My father has raised me well. He has given me many freedoms. In turn, I have never disobeyed or dishonoured him. And, while I may be new to noble life, I am no fool. I would not dare bite the hand that so generously feeds me."

There was no need to remind him of all this. The prince was well aware of the young lady's immaterial qualities. She had already proven them by facing down Richelieu. And he had been foolish to doubt her prowess. "As a Jesuit's daughter, it must be near impossible to grow up an imbecile," he stated, foregoing any admission of his misjudgment. "I hope you will use the knowledge he has given you. Then we shall get on without trouble."

"That is my hope as well." Désirée gave him a fleeting smile, full of peculiar allusion. "After seeing you upset today, I have no desire to stir up your fury ever again."

"I am never upset," he corrected her, making sure to convey his seriousness through a hard glare.

It made Désirée laugh. At least she had the decency to stifle the outburst with her hand. "No, indeed. You only get passionate, like any good gentleman should."

Henri barely suppressed a smirk. He could not have described it more aptly himself. "I have nothing to add to that." For a moment, he paused. Now was a good time to change the subject. He had a proposition to make. "On another note, would you like to accompany me to the theatre tonight?"

"Monsieur, I..." she gasped, paling as though he had given her the most horrid fright. "I cannot say I have ever been to a theatre before. Aside from Chinese opera... " she muttered. Her cheeks flushed pink, making it look like she had just admitted to something highly inappropriate. "But I doubt that counts."

Her reaction was droll. The prince tried to ignore it, fighting against a budding smile. "I believe you will enjoy it."

Désirée creased her brow . She still seemed pensive, unsure. "Will mother be joining us?"

"If you wish," he consented, more than readily. It was a sensible idea. Over the past years, he had spent far too little time with his sister. Éloïse was one of the few women whose company had always been tolerable to him. Gladly, her daughter proved share some of her most pleasant traits. "We have not been out together since before her marriage. Ever since it ended, she has been very reclusive."

"The king lamented the same thing," she stated, staring at her hands that lay folded in her lap. Suddenly, her mood had slipped into a sad, guilt-ridden state. "I hope that neither of you will seek the cause in me."

Henri's fist clenched at so much idiocy. Why did women find so many reasons for pointless self-pity? It crossed him. "I implied no such thing, Mademoiselle. The blame lies with her husband and his spiteful kin. They have left her with nothing." The thought alone sufficed to make his blood boil. "I had plans to remarry her; but Richelieu thwarted them all."

"Now you know why he did so." Désirée seemed calm again; unnaturally calm. Her face had gone from perturbed to downright glacial. Tentatively, she eyed him.

He saw no reason to fly at her. Apparently, it was what she expected. "I do. And it surprises me how he managed to hide your existence from me, for all these years."

"The cardinal is a man of great cunning," she stated. Her unsteady gaze showed him that she did not trust his unfazed demeanour. "Now that you know I exist, do you resent me?"

Henri frowned. His niece seemed even more unconvinced of his benevolence than he had fathomed. "On the contrary, Mademoiselle. I might have, had you been an unruly savage. When Éloïse first told me about you, I feared that you might be just that. A Chinese gutter is no place to raise a young woman."

"Actually, it was quite scenic and less depraved than you might think," Désirée laughed quietly. "But the things I have seen on our travels across the country... Cruelty, desperation and death; far worse than you would ever find them in the filthiest slum of Paris. I pray that your own daughter will never have to witness such horrors."

"Your father did not keep you away from them?" The thought disgusted the prince. He was shocked a reasonable man like de Sauveterre would expose her to such abominations.

She shook her head. Now it was her turn to be unfazed. "Papa would never leave me behind. It was what he swore the night we left France. And he was always true to his word, for better or worse."

"At least it has hardened you enough to endure the pitfalls of noble life," he allowed. "I must admit, it suits me better than having yet another hysterical woman in my family."

Désirée smiled. "And I would appreciate it if you did not treat me like one. Treat me like a son if you can. My father did the same."

"Your father was a special man," Henri replied. The young woman's courage to speak her mind was as impressive as it was misguided. He could not help but admire it. "I shall consider it. But do not disappoint me."

She nodded. A spark of deep gratitude lit up her pale brown eyes. "It is all I can do to repay your trust."

"So far, you have proven worthy of it." Henri stated with great earnestness. Although his sister had misstepped in conceiving his niece, she could not have chosen a better lover for her affair. "You are your mother's daughter; more than you may think."

Steadily, Désirée held his gaze. A thoughtful frown played around her face. "I have not known her for all my life. How is it possible?"

"I have never met my father. Yet people say I am much like him. It is a fact of life." It was the only explanation Henri would offer. He did not feel like engaging in philosophical discussion today. "Perhaps we should discuss this predicament at some other time?"

His niece understood the sentiment. She, too, seemed exhausted after the weeklong struggle for what she had attained today. "We should, Monsieur. Life can take the strangest turns," she mused.

As the carriage passed the Luxembourg Gardens and pulled into the front yard of the family palace, a bright smile grazed her lips. "And sometimes, they are beautiful beyond all expectation..."

Her words posed a riddle, as hard to comprehend as the many other secrets about her. "I take it you are content with the route your life has embarked on now?"

"You have no idea, Monsieur," the young woman whispered. Unexpectedly, she grasped Henri's hands and touched them to her lips. "It has given me more than I have ever hoped for."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this concludes Désirée's eventful journey. I have greatly enjoyed sharing this story with you and want to thank you a million times for following along and being such patient, supportive and amazingly kind readers.
> 
> At the end of it all, I am anxious to hear your feedback. How did you like the story? And what do you think of the way it all turned out?
> 
> Perhaps, someday soon, Mademoiselle and I will be back with a sequel... filled with new, exciting Muskie adventures with the boys! =)


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